In the throes of the sweltering vortex that is Pelican Park, Doug and I huddle together in the makeshift den we've dubbed our Men's Shed. The air is thick with the metallic tang of rust as Doug savagely grinds away at the carcass of a once-proud bicycle, consumed by his bizarre obsessions.
Enter Andy, the weary trucker, a man whose spirit has been crushed beneath the monstrous weight of dump trucks he no longer has the heart to drive.
Doug, muttering about the highway robbery of $120 for a ten-minute repair on his van, laments the missed opportunity of scavenging for spare parts in the graveyard of scrapyard vehicles. His anger manifests in the shattered glass of the driver's side window, now replaced with a makeshift wooden barricade. I park my car under the sanctuary of a shady tree, joking about the unfortunate fate of a frying pan entangled in the rear wheel.
We bask in the deceptive tranquility of Pelican Park, an idyllic island punctuated by a boat ramp. A storm looms in the distance, its ominous presence felt in the cool breeze. I warn my compatriots of the impending arrival of council enforcers, armed to the teeth with authority. But Doug, in his delusional optimism, insists that my eloquent letter to them has bought us temporary respite.
Andy, the disillusioned trucker, proposes we seek refuge in the Hub - a sanctuary for the homeless. He urges me to register as one of their kind, to evade the iron fist of rangers doling out move-on orders and tickets. Doug chimes in, assuring that the Hub's watchful gaze would protect us from the cruel clutches of bureaucracy. Our stomachs growl in anticipation of the hot meal that awaits us there. The hardships of life on the road pale in comparison to the suffocating grip of rapacious landlords and their government-backed extortion.
As a final act of defiance, Andy spits upon the sacred ground of the car park. The languid afternoon stretches before us, but we take solace in the camaraderie that binds us together in this godforsaken corner of Pelican Park.
