Written by: Autumn Royal

Sound production by: Daniel Jenatsch

Spoken by: Autumn Royal, Daniel Jenatsch, and Harriet Gregory
[audio:http://cordite.org.au/audio/Highway99.mp3|titles=Along the Highway, 1999]

Along the Highway, 1999 (7:23)
Sun sparks against the cold curve of moon,

sand returns to the colour red, threatening

the fading asphalt with soft invasion.
A car speeds into this beginning.


Driver  
I had a feeling I was going to run into you.

I saw you yesterday at the Port Augusta servo,

standing under that yellow shell.
I was trying to work out what you were holding,

and then the petrol nozzle clicked full.
You’re really lucky, you know?

You’re like a mosquito that’s escaped a zap,

and I’m the one who’s given you that extra sting.


Passenger 
My heart thuds louder than this rattling motor

which I thought would relieve my bloody blistering 
ankles, my head aching from a three-hour stint

of playing the hitchhiker, roasting like lamb, and hanging

by the neck for the purr of a motor and a driver

with the decency of a pulse.


Fear  
I used to be a scream, but now I’m a murmur

holding myself in for the fear

that no one will ever understand my impediment.
Everything I say is only a thought.


Driver 
You looked at me for a reason, you know?

That stare of yours shocked my feet with electricity,

the static is everywhere, but nobody talks about it.

Maybe that’s why they call the eyes the window

to your soul? Our muted souls haunting our shitty bodies.
God, I hope you don’t think I’m schizo.

I’ll have you know I’ve got a knack for the wheel,

I’ve been up and down this highway

more times than the years I’ll bloody live.


Passenger 
The craving for an escape drives my foot

into a tapping on the car floor.
I hate being the passenger.
The windshield is splattered the way I expected,

with insects. Boredom pulls the black belt

tighter towards my chest. The insects are crawling closer.


Driver
The best way to keep myself amused

is to pick up company when I can.

Insomnia loves meetings,

it sniffs them out like a hungry dog.
I used to travel with my dog. She was a bloody

princess. I called her Joy after my sister,

because Joy went and got herself bloody killed

when she was girl, didn’t she? Well,
they never actually found Joy, but we threw a funeral

for her anyway. They say it’s the only way to move on.
Hell, just like this highway, straight up and down.


Passenger
It’s never like a Die Hard flick,

the logic to bolt doesn’t strike like lightning.
Nah, it’s a bloody low hum that only pricks

the neck at the last tick of the clock.
I’m just lucky I’ve good hearing,

moved through the door before it was kicked

into my face and locked over my jaw. 


Driver 
But I don’t ever want more

than one passenger at a time, you know?

That way you’re the only thing a person

has to focus on, the heart of attention.
It’s like walking into an empty house

and feeling free, but the freedom doesn’t last.
After a while all you want is for someone

to listen to you, even if it’s just putting away the knives

and forks. Each clink is a statement you’re alive.
Knives, forks, spoons, spoons, forks, knives.


Fear 
I awake exhumed, my mouth

open and muddy. I cough up 
my panic, watch it drip down

in a murky saliva rain.


Driver  
I bet you’re wondering how I hang on like this?

We’ll, I’ve had to give a lot up,

but I can still make my own way.
See, when you drive, you’re actually travelling

through time. The sky and the road

eventually meet. I’m just a long way off yet.
I make my money by selling greeting cards.

I’ve got a whole boot full of Merry Christmas,

With Deepest Sympathy, Congratulations, and Blank,

ready to tackle the complexity of any occasion.
If you let me get a few things off my chest,

I’ll not only take you halfway to where you’re

hitching, I’ll throw in a pack of cards, all Blanks.


Along the Highway 
The speeding car shocks

the flies from their struck kangaroo,

splayed warmly amongst itself.
There’s a space where the heat stretches,

down towards the back of the throat,

drying each swallow to a dead end.
The desert imagines nothing I imagine.



 Line from Dorothy Porter’s ‘Questions from the floor’ in Wild Surmise, Picador, 2003, pp. 277-278 ↩
 Line from Jill Jones’ ‘Leaving It To the Sky’ in Dark Bright Doors, 2010, Wakefield Press, pp. pp. 78-79 ↩