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.
There's nothing really special about the place. If you were to go
inside, you would probably see the same boring components of any other
perfectly normal gas station across the forgotten backroads of God's
country: Shelves packed with off-brand chips, cookies, potted meats, and
pickled curiosities. Walls decorated with beer advertisements and windows
filled with broken neon signs. A notice board covered in dozens of missing
persons posters. A pot of coffee brewing in the corner where that bloodstain
keeps reappearing no matter how many times we clean it up. The steady
mechanical hum of a frozen drink machine that hasn't been serviced since
the Reagan administration. Random pockets of icy cold air that seem to
move about of their own accord. And of course, that family of mutated
raccoons living in the crawlspace behind the grease trap.
Well, we think they're mutated anyway. At the very least, they're
inbred to the point of genetic deformity. The alpha (a muscular, three-foot
tall son of a bitch named Rocco) has been caught multiple times chewing on
customer's tires. So far, he's been run over on at least three different
occasions. Yet he keeps coming back, stronger and dumber than ever.
When it comes to upkeep, the gas station aims for "good enough" and
usually misses. A faded wet floor sign sits atop a large crack in the
foundation by the cooler where layers of sticky spill-off have formed a
miniature tar pit, preserving countless insect corpses as well as the
occasional small rodent. One of the doors on the cold drink case is held
together with nothing but duct tape and prayers. And the smoke detector
may or may not be an old frisbee.
Year after year the health inspector, through some divine intervention,
pure laziness, or simple old-fashioned bribery, has signed off on the
business, kindly turning a blind eye to the "good-enough" fixes and a blind
nose to that overwhelming aroma that hangs over the gas station. That
lingering smell--a sweet combination of honeysuckle, ammonia, and vomit--has never been positively identified, but the prevalent theory is that it's
coming from underground, wafting up through the thin fissures in the
concrete that grow and spread with each year of architectural settling. It's
strongest right after a rain and tear-inducing if you get too close to the storm
drains, where even Rocco and his clan refuse to tread.
Were you to answer nature's call during your visit to the gas station,
you might see the bathroom cowboy. He's sort of an urban legend around
here, only ever appearing when you're alone and unsuspecting. Some
people say he wears a long leather duster jacket, bandanna, jeans, chaps,
and boots with spurs. Some say he wears nothing but a black Stetson
cattleman, checkered boxers, and ornate tribal tattoos. Some folks have
witnessed him handing out balloon animals or playing the harmonica; some
claim that he sings to them with the voice of a southern angel while they're
busy doing their business.
Should you be lucky enough to see the cowboy who haunts the
bathroom, don't worry. If he's real, he's harmless. And quite polite, to boot.
Customers have reported a spiritual high after meeting him, and old Bob
Hoover credits the encounter with curing his gout. Honestly, the cowboy
doesn't seem so bad, especially compared to some of the other things you
may encounter.
If you do go inside, there's a great chance you won't see the cowboy,
or the racoons, or anything that might register as out of the ordinary. But
you will probably see me. After all, I'm the only full-time employee, which
means I'm on the clock more often than not. Most of the time, you can find
me sitting behind the counter by the cash register. You may catch me
reading a book because, for some reason, the internet doesn't work way out
there, and cell phone service is dicey on good days and nonexistent on
most.
If you need to make a phone call, you can leave and go up the hill,
back towards town. (Definitely do not continue any further downhill, where
the road snakes into the hungry mouth of a wild sweeping forest. Trust me.
You don't want to know all the reasons that's not a good idea.)
Alternatively, you can pay me twenty-five cents a minute to use the
store's landline. That sacred arrangement was cooked up by the owners
years ago and yes, I have to actually enforce it because yes, they do check
the phone records. I'm sorry.
We get at least one new person every month wandering back into
town from the woods (normally barefoot), sometimes claiming they've just
escaped aliens or monsters or government conspirators or the like, and that
they have no money but need to make a call and could I please let them use
our store phone before "they" find them again? But rules are rules, and I'm
not inclined to lose my job just because you didn't escape captivity with a
little spare change in your pocket.
If you're desperate, you can attempt to approach one of our regulars,
but I wouldn't recommend it. Southern hospitality rarely extends to our
usual clientele, and an outsider striking a conversation with one of the
locals may end up being more trouble than it's worth.
For instance, there's Clive Cornwall, a man who's fond of the bottle
and always takes the case discount on whiskey. All he ever wants to talk
about is the time he met the devil down at the local watering hole. He
claims he insulted the fallen angel's rhinestone jacket, and now he's cursed
to stay perpetually drunk or face the demons determined to drag him to hell.
Then there's bitter old Mrs. Meares, who will happily gab for hours
about her four missing children and how they were abducted one stormy
night from right under her nose. Just don't ask her for any proof. The truth
is nobody around here remembers her ever having any kids in the first
place, least of all Mister Meares.
And let us never forget Farmer Brown, or his famously short temper
that he'd lose at even the slightest provocation. The last time he caused a
scene, it was over the new brand of bulk feed we ordered for him. He
insisted something must have been wrong with our product because, as he
put it, all of his animals suddenly had "human faces." Unfortunately, you
won't be able to ask him for any details. Not too long after the incident, the
sheriff found what was left of his body down at the farmhouse, still
clutching a loaded shotgun, with all the doors dead-bolted from the inside.
As far as I know, they still haven't figured that one out.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is this: weird things happen at the
shitty gas station at the edge of town.