I had a friend named Lubomír who drove trucks across the Nullarbor. He had come from Czechoslovakia in the last days of the Revolution after finding himself on the wrong side of the uprising. He’d picked me up one day and said if I was ever on the Eyre Highway, to keep an eye out for his truck. Everyone called him Lou.
Lou was always in a hurry, drove with the seat tilted forwards as if he was trying to spot a UFO. ‘Bosses,’ he said.
Embrace Australia’s finest writers: subscribe to Meanjin
Subscriptions start at just $5 a month — which goes directly towards our writers’ fees.