Or short CUintheNT. ‘Do you have that car sticker in your store?’, a customer asks me over the phone. My brain is not making the connection and I’m confused about the apparent banality of the question. ‘I’m not sure, sir.’ I answer honestly. Awkward silence on the other end. ‘Could you maybe check?’, he insists. I don’t want to. The Roadhouse is full with other people and I feel that my priority should be with the present customers. I tell the man on the phone that I’m busy and that this is anyway not a very important question. His ego is badly bruised and he threatens to come in and talk to my manager. ‘Please do, sir.’ I agree and hang up. He never comes. My manager chuckles amused when I tell her the story. ‘Anyway, we don’t have them here, because of the obscenity.’ I finally understand.

A bus arrives with a load of barefooted aboriginals, stopping here at Mataranka Roadhouse for their lunchbreak. They had called in advance and we are prepared. I take a break from refilling the constantly-empty trays of CocaCola bottles, two for the price of one, an irresistible offer to the seemingly never-ending thirst for the sugary and carbonated, and join my coworker at the front counter. ‘How can I help you’, I ask with a big smile. ‘Fish and Chips’, the young lady in front of me whispers and I have to lean over the counter to hear her. Not a single superfluous word. Is she shy or doesn’t know any other? I can’t tell. Serves after serves of the deep-fried frozen potatoes, nothing here is really fresh, and the fish, which is definitely not Barramundi, but what else nobody seems to know, change possession. At the end of the line a seriously fatigued face identifying as the bus driver buys a bottle of water and a chicken salad. ‘Long day?’ I ask compassionately. ‘Started at five’, he answers with a tired voice and unfocused eyes. There is nothing I can do for him.

A young man comes in and buys an Esky cooler. He leaves the shop, but returns not five minutes later the Esky in tow. ‘Could I please return it?’ It isn’t a problem but above my paygrade, so I call the manager for help. She looks at him and asks ‘Why, what is the problem with it?’. He looks embarrassed and admits, ‘Seriously pissed off girlfriend. Shouldn’t have bought it.’ Can’t argue with that.

Just an hour before closing a car drives up and two very intoxicated individuals get out. The woman enters the shop and demands fuel. We tell her that after six at night it is prepay, first pay then pump. She takes out her wallet and spreads a selection of coins on the counter. ‘Thirty dollars, please’, she slurs. My coworker counts the coins and realizes that a large number are foreign. ‘You can’t use those’, he tells her. She wouldn’t hear of it. ‘See, see the queen, is the same lady’, she insists pointing at some New-Zealand coins. We look at each other, both having the same train of thought, where we don’t actually know if that is true or not, but then remember that they value differently, so for sure one can’t. I turn to the customer. ‘Ma’am, it is indeed the same queen, but that doesn’t mean you can pay with the coins.’ Retrospectively, I realize that there is no way to argue with a drunk person, but the moment demanded at least an attempt of respect in withholding my presumption on her current mental capacities. This goes back and forth for a while, visibly straining my coworker’s patience and her insufficient control over the volume of her voice attracting curious bystanders. She finally pays in the proper currency and we engage the pump. Five minutes later a red light starts flashing on the screen and dread creeps into my coworker’s face. ‘Oh, please, no’, he exhales exasperated. The pump stopped before all the paid-for fuel was used up. We leave the shop to see what is wrong. The woman yells at the man who stands next to an orange jerry can containing what was clearly meant for the car. The man shouts back. Then both shout at us. Then again at each other. There is too much input but not enough data to get consistent information. It seems the woman demands all her money back. More voices, more customers, more coworkers. It’s a rather pretty mess. Seeing that there is no sense in calming down the involved parties, I resolve to just wait patiently until it’s over. But my coworker’s limit is reached and he kicks them out of the shop and locks the doors behind them. We see on the cameras that they walk, fall and roll around for a while before leaving the edge of our field of vision. The events continue but we don’t hear about them until the next day. By then a strong hint of uneasiness pierces the hearts of the staff and the atmosphere in the roadhouse.