Stuck in Marla

The heat in Marla was oppressive, the kind that seeps into your bones and makes you feel like you're slowly roasting alive. The carpark was a patch of dirt and gravel, littered with tire tracks and the occasional abandoned beer can. The outback petrol station looked like it had seen better days, its paint chipped and faded, the fluorescent lights inside casting a harsh glow over the dusty shelves. The adjoining pub, if you could even call it that, was more of a shack really, with a few weathered picnic tables out front and a sign advertising cold beer and pool tables.

In the midst of this desolate scene lay Joseph Pynchon, or Pynch as he preferred to be called, passed out in the backseat of his beaten-up Landcruiser. The windows were rolled up, doing little to keep out the stifling heat, but it didn't seem to bother him. His head was tilted back against the headrest, a cheap cask of wine cradled in his lap like a long-lost lover. Alice in Chains blared from the car stereo, the only sound breaking the heavy silence of the carpark.

Pynch stirred slightly, his eyes fluttering open to reveal bloodshot irises and a face pale from too much drinking and not enough sun. He took a swig from the cask, wincing slightly as the cheap wine burned its way down his throat. His thoughts were a jumbled mess, a hazy montage of memories and regrets flashing before his eyes. He'd left Wagga a few days ago, full of confidence and determination to make it up to Darwin in time for his new posting in the Air Force. But then he'd hit Coober Pedy, and that's when things had really gone south.

He'd lost all his money gambling and drinking, the siren song of the slot machines and the promise of easy cash luring him in like a moth to a flame. Now here he was, stuck in Marla, waiting for his mum to transfer some money into his bank account so he could buy some petrol and keep going. It was Saturday, which meant he had to wait until Monday at the earliest. And so, Pynch did what he did best: he waited. He drank, he listened to music, he tried to pass the time however he could.

Pynchon leaned back against the car seat, closing his eyes against the harsh light. He could feel the alcohol starting to take effect, numbing his thoughts and his worries. Tomorrow was another day, he told himself. Tomorrow, he'd figure something out.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the carpark, Pynchon found himself in a dark corner of the lot, the Landcruiser almost invisible in the encroaching darkness. He took another swig from the cask, the taste of bitterness now overpowering the sweetness.

The air around him was thick with the stench of diesel fumes and sweat, mingling with the dry heat radiating off the asphalt beneath him. The occasional faint hum of a distant vehicle echoed through the silence, punctuated by the distant howls of dingoes in the nearby outback.

He lay there, his head resting against the side of the car, eyes closed against the harsh glare of the setting sun. His mind drifted, lost in a hazy fog of self-pity and regret. He thought about all the times he'd promised himself this wouldn't happen - that he wouldn't end up here again, broke and alone.

But life had a way of fucking him over, didn't it? One minute he was on top of the world, the next he was floundering in a sea of his own failures. And here he was again, stuck in Marla, waiting for something - anything - to change.

Pynchon woke up to the harsh rays of sun piercing through the windshield, his head throbbing from last night's binge.

With a groan, he reached for the cheap cask of wine that was almost empty now, taking swigs directly from the nozzle. The liquid fire seared down his throat, burning away some of the remaining fog in his mind.

He spent the rest of the day, the bloody Sunday, drinking and dozing, watching the sun slowly cascade across the harsh pale outback sky, and regretting his life and his bad decisions.

And then another night spent drunken sleeping on the back seat of his trusty old Landcruiser.

As the sun rose up the next morning he dragged himself out of the car and into the gas station. The smell of dust and diesel was thick in the air, and he could hear the distant hum of the highway. He approached the payphone and fed the machine more coins, hoping this time would be the one where his mum finally transferred the money he desperately needed.

Minutes ticked by, and Pynchon found himself gripping the receiver tightly, willing his mum to have put the money in his account. But it was always the same computerized voice, "Your available balance is one dollar and twenty four cents." He slammed the receiver back into the cradle, frustration and self-pity bubbling to the surface.

He trudged back to the car, feeling the weight of his failures pressing down on him. He hadn't even made it halfway to Darwin, and now he was stuck here, broke and alone. As he climbed back into the car, he noticed the time on the dashboard clock – it was 10:04 AM. Surely soon, soon it would go in.

And then, finally, it did. A wave of relief washed over him as the cold bank computer lady finally told him of the money in his account. He let out a whoop of joy, the sound echoing off the surrounding buildings. With shaking hands, he started up the car and pulled up at the bowser.

He filled the tank, bought a hot pie and a can of coke, then roared out of the carpark like a bat out of hell, leaving Marla and its endless expanse of nothingness behind him.