I had always wanted to travel to the Tropic of Capricorn, the imaginary line that divides the earth into two hemispheres. I had read about it in books and seen it on maps, but I never had the chance to see it for myself. So when I got a month off from work, I decided to take a road trip along the east coast of Queensland, Australia, in my old hatchback.
It was a long and lonely drive, but I enjoyed the scenery and the freedom. I had a two-way radio in my car, and I tuned in to channel 40, the unofficial frequency for truck drivers. I liked listening to their conversations, their jokes, their stories. They called themselves truckies, and they seemed to have a strong sense of camaraderie and community. Sometimes I would join in and chat with them, using the handle "Hatchback". They were friendly and curious about me, and they gave me useful tips on where to stop for fuel, food, or rest.
One night, I pulled over at a truck stop near Rockhampton, the closest city to the Tropic of Capricorn. I was excited to cross the line the next day and see what was on the other side. I parked my hatchback next to a row of big rigs and got out. I stretched my legs and walked towards the diner. I was hungry and tired, and I hoped they had something decent to eat.
As I approached the diner, I heard a familiar voice coming from one of the trucks. It was "Big Red", one of the truckies I had talked to on channel 40. He had a deep and booming voice, and he always sounded cheerful and confident. He was telling other truckies about something that had happened at the last truck stop he had visited.
"You won't believe this, mates," he said. "There was this weirdo at the truck stop who had set up his computer on a table outside. He had a generator running and everything. He was typing away like mad, like he was writing a novel or something."
I stopped in my tracks. That was me. That was what I had been doing for the past few weeks. I had brought my laptop with me on my trip, and I had been working on a novel in my spare time. It was something I had always wanted to do, but never had the courage or the opportunity. It was a horror novel, inspired by some of the authors I admired, like Richard Bachman or Stephen King. It was called "Misery", and it was about a famous writer who gets kidnapped by a deranged fan who forces him to write a sequel to his best-selling book.
I felt a surge of embarrassment and anger. How dare he call me a weirdo? How dare he mock me for pursuing my passion? How dare he invade my privacy and broadcast it to everyone? I felt like confronting him and telling him off, but I decided against it. It would only make things worse. Besides, he didn't know it was me. He didn't know that Hatchback was the weirdo with the computer.
I walked into the diner and ordered a burger and fries. I tried to ignore the laughter and comments coming from outside. I told myself that it didn't matter what they thought of me. I told myself that I was doing something worthwhile and meaningful. I told myself that someday they would read my novel and be amazed by it.
I ate my food quickly and paid the bill. Then I went back to my hatchback and got in. I turned on the radio and switched to channel 40. Big Red was still talking about me.
"...and then he had this sign on his table that said 'Do not disturb'. Can you believe that? As if anyone would want to disturb him anyway. What a nutter!"
I grabbed the microphone and pressed the button.
"Hey Big Red," I said in a calm voice.
There was a pause.
"Who's this?" he asked.
"It's Hatchback," I said.
There was another pause.
"Hatchback? Is that you?"
"Yeah, it's me."
"Hey mate, how are you? Where are you?"
"I'm right next to you," I said.
There was silence.
Then I heard him open his door and get out of his truck. He walked around his rig and looked at my car. He saw me sitting inside with my laptop on my lap.
He looked shocked.
"Is that...is that your computer?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Are you...are you writing a novel?"
"Yes," I said.
He looked confused.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I want to," I said.
He looked puzzled.
"What's it about?" he