Author’s Note: Here’s an excerpt of a story I’ll be publishing in my writing group’s upcoming anthology.
Clint fishtails his truck into a gas station parking lot just outside Flagstaff, Arizona, oversized tires pummeling the old asphalt. He parks in two, maybe three spots at the side of the store. His hand reaches through the truck’s open window to pull the handle. It opens with an impolite creak. Clint dangles an electric yellow sandal three feet off the pavement, held in place by the pinching fabric of an ugly Christmas sock.
He finds a step welded onto the bottom of the truck frame, puts his weight on it, and hops out of the cab. “I’ll give that landing a ten out of ten,” Clint says. He brushes the long, lime green strands of his wig from his face to put his sunglasses on. They’re cheap plastic, taken from a different gas station back east. The paper tag spins and tickles his nose. A good snort sends it flying.
Clint’s corduroy pants whistle as he walks towards the front of the shop. They’re a shade of purple he likes to call, “Mysterious.” He doesn’t wear a shirt. Instead, he has a woven fabric hoodie with zigzagging lines in turquoise and pink so hot it could melt plastic. Clint stops and snaps his fingers, rushing back to his truck. “Almost forgot,” he says. He reaches up and opens the cab, searching the floorboard near the pedals. His fingers brush over his .38 Special, wrapped tightly in a cheap plastic shopping bag. The plastic crinkles as he shoves the gun in the back of his pants, the grip hanging just above his beltline. He covers the exposed grip with the back of his hoodie. “Now we’re ready to party,” he says, hustling back to the station.
Clint stops to check his reflection in the glass doors in front of the station. He flashes a smile that doesn’t last very long. Underneath his getup, he looks small, like a child trying on a parent’s clothes.
He swings a door open and hums along with the depressing electric chime. The store has that floor cleaner smell, sweet and disgusting. Along the back wall, the refrigerators click and hum while struggling to keep beer and soda cold so close to a desert. A lonely soda fountain sits next to a slushy machine and a pot of coffee that looks old enough to vote.
Behind the counter, a middle-aged clerk sits with his back to the door, eyes glued on a tube TV. Clint walks up and reads some of the handprinted signs taped to the open safety window. They’re the usual warnings, no underage sales, ten dollar minimum to pay with plastic, no shirt, no service. “Excuse me, sir, can I trouble you a moment?”
“Sure, what do you need?” asks the clerk. His tone of voice lacks a soul. He spins his stool around. The plastic nametag pinned to his shirt reads: “Sundrop.” Sundrop’s mouth drops open.
“I was wondering if I can get some change,” says Clint. He pulls out a shiny, brown leather billfold, “BDENRGY” stitched on the side. Clint takes out a fifty and lays it on the counter. “I don’t like the way Grant looks at me.”
“You, uh, you gotta buy something,” says Sundrop.
“Of course, of course,” says Clint. He scans the shelves of cigarettes and chewing tobacco behind Sundrop’s head. “I’ll take a pack of Coffin Nails, non-menthol, in a box.”
Sundrop’s frown is the first sign of humanity Clint has seen all afternoon. He gets the pack, sets it on the counter.
“Can I get a lighter, too? And I’ll need a bag.” Clint grins, a bland attempt to combat the clerk’s growing frown.
Singular Fiction 