When I got to work, I had about ten minutes to spare before I was
scheduled to clock in, so I spent that time cleaning myself up and changing
in the bathroom. I'd made a habit of keeping a box in the storage closet
with a spare toothbrush and a change of clothes for days like this, and I took
advantage of that fact more times than I could remember.
I clocked in and grabbed a countdown sheet to take over the till from
Miguel, the part time cashier with severe halitosis. It was his first week with
us, and so far, he seemed to be doing okay. I asked him if I had missed
anything exciting while I was gone.
"Yeah," he answered, "That deputy stopped by and left you this."
He handed me a rolled-up brown paper bag. Inside I found an old
Nokia flip phone and a used paperback novel about robots on the moon. I
made a mental note to thank old Tom the next time he came in.
"Cool. Anything else?"
"I got a weird phone call earlier from a guy named Farmer Junior."
That was Farmer's oldest son, another local who was quickly turning into a
real nuisance. "He asked if I knew anything about the 'hand plants.' When I
told him I didn't know what he was talking about, he hung up on me."
"Yeah, the Brown clan aren't exactly known for their social graces."
"Also, one of the customers said he saw a half-naked man in the
bathroom wearing a cowboy hat and juggling knives."
"That happens."
"Oh, and one more thing," he took off his nametag and handed it
over, "I'm going to have to tender my resignation effective immediately. I
can't take all these customers trying to put thoughts into our heads without
our permission. This place is evil, and I need to get out before it's too late."
This was a little surprising, but not completely unexpected. "Thanks
for letting me know. We're going to miss you, Miguel."
"My name is Rico."
"Really?" He made a pouty face at me, and I looked at the nametag in
my hand, which confirmed that he was indeed correct about his name.
Oh, that's right, Miguel was the one with severe body odor.
Rico clocked out and left. He never gave us a forwarding address and
never picked up his last paycheck and, as far as I know, nobody ever saw
him again. I went into the back room where we post the schedule and
penciled in my name next to all of his shifts for the upcoming week.
When I got back to the counter, I noticed that somebody had left a
stack of pamphlets next to the register. The image printed on the front was a
simple black and white logo for the "Universal Fellowship of Mathmetists."
Without giving it a second thought, I tossed the entire stack into the garbage
and turned my attention to the bag that Tom had left for me.
Not surprisingly, the phone didn't get reception way out there, and
was effectively nothing more than a brick with a clock on it, but the book
was a real lifesaver on a boring day like this. I'd already made it to chapter
three before Antonio snapped me back to reality with a simple "Hey, Jack."
Antonio was another one of the many part-timers on the gas station's roster.
For some reason I'll never understand, the owners were always very wary
about hiring any more "full-timers." Instead, they liked to hire transients,
drifters, hitchhikers, passers-by and runaways looking for a few days' work.
As a rule, I tried not to get to know them. Like Rico and Miguel, they
would come and go after a few days, or sometimes a few weeks, rarely long
enough to form any kind of meaningful relationship.
But then there was Antonio ("Tony" if you're lazy), who by that point
had been working with me for almost a year--a very solid second place for
longest-term gas station employee. He started as part of the prison work
relief program from a neighboring county, tending the grounds and
unloading trucks twice a week. He earned the owners' respect after
becoming the only one of twelve prisoners who didn't disappear during a
freak snowstorm last December (I never got all the details, but that story
falls under the none-of-my-business category). Tony did his time, and after
his release he came to work with us on a more permanent basis.
On any normal work day, he would show up three times (morning,
afternoon, and night) for each of his two-hour shifts, part of a super-special
arrangement with the owners. And even though the store was never clean,
and delivery trucks only come twice a week (exclusively during daylight
hours following the so-called "bear attack"), I never bothered to ask what
his official job was. In return, he never pried into my personal life. It was a
solid relationship built on mutual respect and privacy, and at some point
along the way it dawned on me that he was probably the closest thing I had
to a friend.
I put my book down and said, "Hi."
Usually, our conversations end after the first "Hey," or "Morning,"
but that day Tony was a little more talkative than usual.
"So, uh, I noticed that Tom was hanging around earlier. Everything
alright?"
"Oh, yeah. We got robbed again last night."
"Dude, for real?"
"Yeah."
"Man, that sucks."
"Yeah."
"You alright?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't know, man." He looked around the room. Something was
clearly on his mind, but I had no idea what and no inclination to ask. After a
moment, he turned back to me and said, "Well, if you need somebody to
talk to about it, let me know."
"Thanks," I responded.
He left me to my book, and the rest of my shift passed without
incident.
***
After I had finished up and clocked out, I decided to stretch my legs
and take a long walk into town. I had already spent eight hours sitting
behind a counter, and nine hours sitting inside of a car, and I was getting
worried that if I sat too much longer my butt would develop bed sores.
The bank was already closed, so I wouldn't be able to get a new debit
card until morning. Same thing for the electronics shop, so I was stuck with
the paperweight phone for the time being. But there was one problem I
could take care of right away. I needed a new book to read.
As I walked up the hill and into town, I could feel the bright afternoon
sun on my face, baking the earth around me, turning the thick, humid air
into something comparable to hot soup. I was a couple blocks from the
bookstore when the bottom of the sky fell out, and in a matter of seconds I
was drenched to my socks from the spontaneous rainstorm. A red truck sped
past and swerved to hit a mud puddle next to the sidewalk and splash me.
As it drove away, I could hear laughter coming from the cab and saw a hand
extending a middle finger out of the passenger side window.
At least they didn't throw a beer bottle at me this time.
I live in the same small southern town where I was born and raised.
It's the kind of place where, for fun, people do Civil War reenactments in
the summer and meth in the winter. The kind of community where folks
don't take too kindly to (fill in the blank). The kind of town where people
wear t-shirts to funerals and bookstores are an anomaly, and the only thing
keeping New Pages from shutting its doors for good was the owner's side
business of selling marijuana out of the back room.
We called him "Brother Riley," a leftover affectation from his days as
a youth minister, before he opened his own book and records shop, "New
Pages," which the church leaders immediately deemed "corrosive to the
moral fabric of our community." There was a big to-do about it, ultimately
culminating in an emergency meeting where they voted unanimously to
excommunicate with prejudice.
He had a long blonde ponytail, John Lennon glasses, and the start of a
beer gut, and when he saw me walk into the store, drenched from head to
toe, he didn't hesitate to say, "Hey man. You look like shit."
"Yeah, plus I'm wet," I responded.
That place always smelled like an old book--musty, yet inviting. The
air and atmosphere were as warm as a campfire in winter, and even though I
knew it was only a matter of time before the business folded from
community pressure or financial necessity or the inevitable drug bust,
coming in here always felt like coming home.
I tried not to drip too badly while Brother Riley headed into the back
room, leaving me alone with the racks of beguiling merchandise. While I
waited for him to return, I remembered the doctor's instructions and did a
quick scan of the bookshelves for any blank journals, but I was immediately
distracted by that box set of fantasy novels I'd been looking at for a while. I
still had a little cash left over from my emergency rainy day fund and
couldn't imagine a more appropriate scenario than this to spend it.
Before I realized he was back, Brother Riley pushed a beach towel
into my arms and said, "Looks like the devil's been beating his wife again."
I looked out the window for a second and responded, "Yeah, I guess
you're right."
In case you're confused, that's an expression where I'm from. When
the sun is out, and the sky is clear blue, and there isn't a cloud in sight but
somehow, it's still pouring down raining, we say that the devil is beating his
wife.
"Need any help finding anything?" he asked.
"Well, actually, I happen to be in the market for a journal."
"What, like a word journal?" He squinted his eyes at me like I had
somehow offended his sensibilities.
"Exactly."
"Well shoot, man. You may as well save your money and do a blog
instead."
"A blog?" I asked.
"It's what all the other kids are doing these days. It's like a real
journal, only with the added perk of judgmental strangers telling you how
they feel about it every step of the way."
Honestly, that prospect didn't exactly sound appealing, but I was
willing to give free a shot.
He pointed me in the direction of the old desktop he kept in the corner
for public use, next to a coffee-stained blue bean bag chair and a laminated
sign that read "Absolutely no porn! (looking at you, Kevin)."
If I hadn't been stranded there, waiting for the rainstorm to subside, I
probably wouldn't have gone through the effort. But with nothing else to do
to pass the time, I decided "Why not?"
I took a seat and spent the next hour building a bare and mostly basic
website (I'm not very artistic). Then I made my first blog entry:
"At the edge of town on the downhill side, beyond the abandoned
railroad tracks to nowhere, past the point where the streetlights end but
before the world disappears beneath a twisted canopy of oak and black
willow trees, there's a shitty little gas station open twenty-four hours a day,
seven days a week..."
I've put a lot of thought into everything that happened since this
moment. I've carefully reconstructed the events, restacked the dominoes,
and walked backwards through all the deaths and explosions and demonic
incantations, and I've consistently come to the same realization.
Everything leads back to this seemingly innocuous instant.
Everything to come could have been completely averted if I had never sat
down at this computer. Never built this website. Never told my story to the
world. As I finished my post and clicked submit, as the winds changed and
doom began its unholy voyage to our town, I wondered silently to myself if
anyone would ever even read my story.