The Local Driver


floodplains road 2 (1 of 1)

She parked in front of the local Police Station. Jumped out the driver’s seat with a skip in her step, and smiled at the intermittent shine amongst the dented rusted panels that made up most of the farm Ute.

Today was the day.

She wiped sweaty palms on her skirt as her stomach churned. Pulled the heavy glass door open and stepped inside.  Bleach, urine, and stale air bit at her sinuses forced her to wince, and the door closed with a ‘thwack’ made her jump.

The Sergeant leant against the front counter, glasses balanced on the end of his nose. ‘You’re wearing a dress.’

With wide smile, chin up, she smoothed out the cotton floral. ‘I know. And it’s not even Sunday.’

‘You here to pay for your parking tickets?’

Her mouth twisted the side, screwing up her nose. ‘I’ve got none.’ She hoped.

‘Well, the neighbours haven’t been silent on that front. Your school hasn’t called me, and there’s none of your family asleep in the drunk-tank for you to drive ’em home. So, why are you here annoying me? What did you do?’ Lowered his head, his frown deepening.

‘Nothing-’ gulp.


‘I ah, um…’ she frowned, teething her bottom lip.

‘Young lady, I’m a busy man, spit it out-’

‘It’s my birthday today where I’m now of the legal age to apply for my Driver’s license,’ and smiled wide.


(FYI: Based on a true story. The photo is mine of the road into town.)


4 thoughts on “The Local Driver

  1. Nik says:

    Great picture and what an excellent post. What appears to be a very simple tale on the surface reveals a lot of past history and has great depth. Nicely done as always Mel

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.