7.
We travelled north for several days after the nude protest in Jarramun. Exhausted and repulsed by the sight of Brie cheese, we came across a village I’d never seen on any map.
The houses had broken tile roofs and little, dainty windows stained with shapes and bleeding biblical scenes. The place felt like a fairytale come alive with poverty and stray cats.
Mangy dogs woofed weakly from their chains. Resigned from their positions as chief alert-ers and scare-away-ers. A boy, my age, pressed his face against his kitchen window, in awe of our dented blue Holden.
A sad, faded looking service station slumped to the side of the street. We pulled over and my mother hung her head over the steering wheel.
‘I can’t keep going,’ she said, ‘we’ll have to stay here a while.’
‘How long? A day, two? A week?’
‘I don’t know.’
She opened the door and filled the gas tank. Rex slept awkwardly on the backseat, his nose pushed against our luggage, snoring.
The station interior was peeling but spotless. Flat bottles of soft drink lined the wall, accompanied by melty candy bars and cheap magazines. The place smelled like burnt rubber. Music played placidly in the background.
‘Ay!’
A raspy voice yelled from the back room.
‘Ay, JOSHUA! COUNTER!’
Another, clearer voice fired back.
‘YES, SIR, SURE. Um, hang on, just a minute.’
A scruffy, spectacled Japanese boy navigated his way through the cluttered path to the front counter.
‘URF!’
He tripped over a cardboard box and met the linoleum with a glasses-on-ground crack.
‘Crap, not again…’
He rattled on, quite unaware of my presence for a minute or two. Something about his blathering was comforting. It broke the service-station silence, only interrupted occasionally by the fanned slice of thick service-station air.
‘… What the heck will mum think, not again… oh!’
He adjusted his shattered glasses and nametag, smiling a jumpy smile at me.
‘Can-can I help you?’
‘Gas for bowser three. Do you sell dog food?’
He stopped, mid-cash-exchanging.
‘Why would you need dog food?’
‘Because I have a dog.’
His almond eyes narrowed suspiciously.
‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ he said. His jumpiness edged away and was replaced by a catlike skepticism.
‘No, I’m not. Dog food?’
‘Sorry, nope. Here’s your receipt.’
He handed me a handwritten receipt and scurried into the back room, muttering darkly about his broken glasses.
YOU ARE READING
Hollow Bones
General FictionSola Hindemid is haunted by the effects of "not fitting with normality the way stacked teacups did". After her grandmother's death, she, her mother and her dog embark on a roadtrip to nowhere in particular, forming an unorthodox friendship that culm...
