Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer
How could driving on our wide and spacious carriageways around this lovely Victorian city in 2020 be a point of reflection and meditation? Well- short answer -it can’t be! It’s akin to modern day warfare.
If you somehow manage to zone out while cruising along like Nana down Flemington Road leaning into the inner lane looking like a lopsided three wheeled pram, you will soon find out that you will be spotted.
They will find you and awaken you from your inner sanctuary within your comfortable steel and glass cocoon that emits carbon into the atmosphere unceasingly while inside you snooze to Jonie Mitchell or Jon Faine ( No- he still hasn’t retired.) They say now that climate change has passed the tipping point and we’ve gone too far. But she’s not thinking of that. She just wants to get home and turn on the air conditioner. The real world isn’t happening in her cocoon, but its coming and you can’t ignore it.
The red sationwagon that gleams like a dozen suns and sounds like a dozen suns too screeches up behind you so close you can’t read his rego. He blasts the horn and you are shaken from your meditation on how to solve the water crisis or was it the musing on the stark beauty of the Texan desert in the Joni song?
But its gone now anyway as you stare down the rear vision tunnel at a sunglassed, baseball capped young man waving a fist and obviously yelling but all you can hear is the next radio tune- Cheap Trick you think- an old favorite- “Surrender”. But this is no time for that. Your heart rate increases and you rise from your revere to think quickly of an escape strategy.
“How do I get away from this dude?” A quick scan shows that a quick left may spare you any confrontation as red wagon man continues to rage behind you. Oh God he’s trying to get past you and come along side to continue his rant. I hope he hasn’t got a gun or other weapons on hand to help him vent his spleen! Where are the highway cops when you need them? Probably laid off like half of the public service.
The heart rate increases as you try not to look at him and wish three B double trucks would appear so you could hide in amongst their splendid gleaming large wheels like a chick amongst her brood- protected from predators.
But red wagon man is making his way into the next lane pushing in like a spoilt child wanting to get all the chocolates before anyone else. A thought crosses her mind amongst the growing sheer panic as he continues to inch closer at a faster pace. She thinks his number plate would be important to note. It’s probably something like “Avenger” or “Toxic Madman” written with those cryptic numbers meaning to be letters. Some people must have more money than they know what to do with! Why waste it on tagging a machine. Surely it must be a sign of some form of mental delinquency? How can such a young guy even afford to drive such a beast? Surely it must be worth at least 50 grand? Maybe he’s just flown down from the mines where there is no traffic and they earn more in a month than she could in a year. Maybe he’s been laid off from the mines with the last downturn- which is an even worse thought! That’s it she thought- he’s an alien from the desert unused to how Melbourne traffic is. But now he’s right up next to her as she scours the road ahead for an exit from this flow. The road is a raging bitumen river that sucks all within its vortex and she is seeking an eddy to escape into.
The new tunnel roadworks (aka The Black Hole) that finally removed the government due to its cost blowouts, corruption and lack of foresight suddenly appear up ahead and she scoots off to the detour towards the bridge plastered against the setting sun in the grey heat haze. Meanwhile the redwagon man with his gleaming dozen suns machine gives a farewell blast to edge her on in a cloud of dust blown in from a passing overloaded tram.
Safety at last! She glances back and reads his rego- Western Australian- Car Nut3- appropriately the U was slightly obscured.