It’s peak hour. Highway’s crawling bumper to bumper. Then at the mercy of traffic lights, they sit and wait as a group. But individually…

There’s an old muscle car with different coloured panels, with the rumble of a heavy V8 engine, sporting new rims and tyres. The young man behind the wheel is putting on his tie while eating a piece of toast. The sounds of a marketing Pod-cast is heard over a singular speaker jammed on the dash with cord running to his phone. Both car and man are works in progress?

A sleek luxurious sedan contains a ramrod straight-back driver. Blonde hair in a twist. Wearing a crisp white blouse and blue scarf knotted at the neck like an airline stewardess. Manicured nails tap on the steering wheel as she sits expressionless behind dark sunglasses. If not for the fingertip-tap-dance, she looked like an inflatable autopilot from MIB.

In the back seat is a young boy wearing the private school uniform who flips me the bird. Then checks to make sure the stone-faced autopilot hadn’t seen him. Bet he ends up being a company director driven around in limousines all day.

A bearded man sits in his four wheeled drive Ute that’s a mobile office, with an in-house filing system represented by a chaotic mass of paperwork sprawled across the dash. Listening to talkback radio while cleaning his fingernails with a pocket knife.

A woman in the hatchback, dusts assorted small soft toys and solar panelled dancing flowers. Rearranging them in a particular order upon the crocheted blanket that covers the dashboard. All that’s missing is a few fairies, a miniature tea set, a white rabbit, some hats and they could have a party.

A mud coloured station wagon with a kayak rests on the roof rack. The driver’s head leans against the headrest. Traveller’s coffee cup in hand, rubbing his eyes and then yawns between sips. His damp hair tousled, chin unshaven on tanned skin. He sips. Yawns. Rubs eyes. Repeats.

Two young females, inside a Mini, share the overhead mirror space. Apply makeup, brush hair, while lip-synching to music that vibrates the tiny car. It’s almost rocking and becoming a mobile bomb with hairspray fumes clouding the interior.

And the truck driver, looks on from his heightened perch above the crowd of waiting cars. Picks his nose and looks down into the Mini. Shaking his head, eyes widening he watches the two young women perform the well-practiced hair and makeup routine.

His passenger is reading off the clipboard. Boots rest on the dash, glances out the window and nods to the bearded guy in the Ute folding up the pocket knife.

There’s dozens of vehicles. Different makes and models, encompassing individual stories within.

Then the lights turn green and with a thunderous roar, exhaust plumes into the morning sky. And like a washed out rainbow colour spill, they disappear in search of the own pots of gold.

Gone.

To turn around.

And do it all again – tomorrow.

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