The days at the station were getting longer and longer. I would sit in a state of catatonia wondering if my life would ever change. I was in a state of stasis. Forever trapped in what had become a boring, uneventful purgatory. Long gone were the days of tripping on acid and being tormented by retards. Gone were the days of looking down cute girl’s tops. Gone were the days of battling brown recluses, wayward pigeons and crazy pixies. Now, it was just sitting around chain-smoking and watching “90210” reruns I’d already seen a million times before. It wasn’t even fun to make fun of “Thunder in Paradise” anymore—a show where Hulk Hogan played a Navy Seal who, with his brainy partner, commanded a high-tech boat called “Thunder.” That show used to be particularly fun to watch with Dustin. Whenever they showed the boat chasing after bad guys, the footage was sped up so the boat traveled impossibly fast. We’d always add our own dialogue, usually borrowing from “Star Wars”: “Piloting Thunder isn’t like dusting crops, boy! Without precise calculations you could bounce into the coast of Africa and slam into Australia and that’d end your trip real quick, wouldn’t it?!”

As certain as I was I had gotten the job at Cerner, I had pretty much given up after not hearing from them for a couple of months. Susan reassured me that they were usually glacially slow in their hiring process. Sure enough, I received a phone call at the station one boring day. It was the “enabler” who had given me the itinerary prior to my interview! They were offering me a position as a programmer! I was in shock as I hung up the phone. This was a major coup for me. Cerner never hired anyone without a college degree, let alone high school dropouts.

Suddenly the gas station and all the little concerns about it seemed completely meaningless. I called Toad and gave him my two weeks notice. His response was somewhat pathetic. He was so used to employees just up and leaving without notice. I almost felt bad as he thanked me over and over for “doing it right.”

I had more fun my final week at the station than I’d had since the days of doing acid while waiting on cars. I took the opportunity to put certain customers in their place. One day, a young man came in driving a pickup. He parked next to the pumps like he wanted gas, so I went out to take care of him.

“Hey, watcha need?”

“Check the oil.”

“What?”

“Check the oil.”

“Are you getting gas?”

It irritated me to no end when people did that. Our station charged nothing extra for full service and some shameless individuals didn’t mind taking advantage of the fact. Now, Tom and Lee couldn’t have cared less if we’d just told the deadbeats to get lost. But the gas station was Toad’s life and he demanded everyone be treated with the utmost respect.

“Do I have to get gas to get you to check the oil?”

“That’s usually how it works.”

“Nevermind. I’ll check it myself.”

“Okay.”

I went back inside and sat down at the desk. A few minutes later, the man came inside.

“I need a quart of oil. Do you sell that?”

I turned to the rows of oil sitting on shelves behind me, “What does it look like?”

“You know what. Fuck it. I’ll go across the street. Asshole.”

“Bye. Come back, now!” I called after him.

* * *

The gas station held one final surprise for me. I should have known I wouldn’t be able to get away so easily.

The day started innocently enough, with Toad and Pedro leaving me to work alone until Poopie arrived. It wasn’t like there was any business anymore. I probably could have handled the entire shift by myself.

Poopie arrived five minutes late with a wide grin on his face, “Poop!”

“Hey Poopie.”

“Guess what!”

“I give up.”

“I made a little Poopie!”

I pondered a moment. Did he mean he just shit himself? “A what?”

“Vanessa’s pregnant! We’re going to have a little Poopie!”

The mental picture burned itself into my mind’s eye. I could envision Vanessa lying on a table like a lump of dough, shooting a little brown mound out of some unmentionable orifice.

“That’s… disturbing.”

“Darren?! Aren’t you happy for us?”

“Sure, man. I’m certain you three will be happy living off of my tax money.”

“You’re just jealous!”

“My God.”

Poopie ended up moving in with Vanessa Poopie, after I’d left the station, and they lived in bliss with their little Poopie for several months. Poopie collected disability for some mental disturbance from which he suffered while Vanessa collected all sorts of government benefits. It almost made me wish I was a single mother. Their relationship lasted all of three months before Vanessa kicked Poopie out for being a “lazy good-for-nothing.” Not that she needed him around for income or anything. My tax dollars saw to that. Hell, she could have even gone to college for free. What a racket.

* * *

And so, the final night came. I counted my money and read the pumps and punched the codes on the credit card machine to spit out the printout of the night’s receipts. I tore the day’s page off the calendar and took a Polaroid Josh had taken of Tracy, Toad, Roy and me in the office and tucked it somewhere in the middle of the calendar so Toad would get it as a surprise some day in the future. I brought everything inside, locked the pumps and turned the “Closed” sign one last time. I left the station for the last time, locking the door behind me.

It was a couple of weeks before I was called back for an interview in the Software Development department. When I arrived, I was given an itinerary indicating I would be interviewing with four people for fifteen minutes each. Susan had already clued me in on the people who would be interviewing me. She knew three of them and had spoken to them about me. They all would be easy, she assured me, except the fourth who was somewhat of an asshole. She said not to worry about him, as long as I did well with the first three—and, she was confident, I would.

Susan also warned me that I would need to wear a business suit for the interview. The Software Development side of the company was more formal than Product Development. She took me out to buy me a suit for the interview.

I sat in the expansive lobby reading a brochure I was given while waiting for my Human Resources liaison. For some reason, the company used the term “facilitator” to refer to the liaison. I preferred the word “enabler.” As I scoured the brochure, I realized the company had specific words that were to be used for just about everything: employees were “associates,” customers were “clients,” a demonstration was a “knowledge transfer.” The company was divided into “orgs” and “CinCs.” It was probably frowned upon when an employee—I mean associate—didn’t use the proper terminology. I looked up from the brochure and examined the large picture of the company founders smiling down upon me from the wall.

“Cerner has always been at war with Eurasia,” I thought.

After several minutes, my enabler showed up and led me to a small room. She left me there alone, closing the door behind her. More waiting.

Several minutes later, the first interviewer appeared. He asked me a few easy questions then left. More waiting.

The second interviewer arrived. He was more nervous than I was. He struggled to produce a few pointless questions, which I answered effortlessly. I was so emboldened by the ease of the interviews, I even expounded upon my answers for several minutes. Most of what was coming out of my mouth was bullshit. I knew he wouldn’t know the difference.

The third interview was an oral test of my programming knowledge. Another easy one.

Finally, the fourth interviewer came in—the one Susan said would be most difficult. Something about him looked vaguely familiar.

He smiled and shook my hand, “Hello, I’m Ron Kyle. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you.” I forgot his name as soon as he said it.

Ron asked me a few questions before we were interrupted by his beeper. He excused himself to another room. I thought a moment, “Why does he look so familiar?” I checked the itinerary to see what his name was, “Ron Kyle. Ron Kyle. Holy shit, Ron Kyle!”

Ron came back into the room and apologized for the interruption.

“Do you have a brother named Mark?”

He looked at me with some apprehension. The last I’d heard, Mark had been heavily into drugs, but that was several years ago. Still, it had caused a lot of trouble in his family. Ron, who was quite a bit older than me, probably thought I was one of Mark’s druggie friends.

“Yeah,” he replied with caution.

“Oh my God! I’m your second cousin!”

“What?”

“Your mother and my grandmother were sisters! I’m Sandy’s son!”

“Darren?!”

“Yeah! I can’t believe I didn’t recognize your name. It’s been a long time!”

“Yeah, me too! How have you been?”

The rest of the fifteen minutes was spent catching up on family events. Nothing about it remotely resembled an interview.

Once the time was up, Ron stood, “Well, I don’t have a problem recommending family.”

“Cool.”

I was certain I had bagged it.

* * *

It had been years since I’d been to a concert. I think the last one had been Iron Maiden and Twisted Sister. My concert memories were badly disjointed with events from one blending into events from another. All of them together seemed like one long hair-band orgy. After Iron Maiden, I decided I wasn’t really interested in the concert scene any longer. I could stay home and get fucked up with a cassette playing and not have to deal with dirty, smelly metal-heads puking on me. Well, except for Willie.

It was with some hesitation that I accepted Josh’s offer to take Tracy and me to the Nirvana concert. Mudhoney was opening for them, and Tracy seemed more excited about that than seeing Nirvana. In the end, I couldn’t pass it up—Nirvana was my favorite band at the time. I began to regret my decision as Tracy had a couple of beers before we even left.

We drove to the concert with Josh, which was an experience in and of itself. Pixies were always scattered and confused. Josh’s driving reflected that. Miraculously, we managed to get to the auditorium in one piece and made our way to the building. We were stopped by a middle-aged man who was balding and had a mustache. He wore a pager and a hat that looked like he’d stolen from Yoko Ono.

“Dial a deal! Dial a deal!”

Josh looked at me and laughed, “Dude!”

The man walked up to us, “You guys want some good opium?”

My mouth watered. I could taste that sweet bubble gum flavor vividly just from memory. I looked at Tracy, who was busy sucking on a bottle of beer.

Fuck it, “Yeah, I’ll take some.”

I gave the man some money for a small ball of opium. He thanked me and handed me a business card with his pager number on it, “Any time you need a fix, brother, just dial my pager. 24 hour service.”

I noticed a pregnant blonde woman who had been standing a few feet behind him throughout the whole transaction. She was smiling blankly and watching us.

“Cool, man. Is that your wife?”

“Yeah, brother. Gotta support the kid, you know.”

“Yeah, dude.”

Josh and I laughed and we all headed back to his car to roll the opium up into a joint while the dealer wandered off into some other part of the parking lot, his calls, “Dial a deal! Dial a deal!” growing more and more faint.

We smoked the joint before heading back inside for the concert. It had been long enough since I’d done narcotics that the opium hit me quit hard. Maybe “hard” is the wrong word. There isn’t anything “hard” about opiates—it’s all softness and floating. It felt like the familiar comfort of an old friend. And I didn’t care about Tracy.

When we finally made it into the auditorium, Tracy wandered off to use the bathroom. I was standing in the hall outside the theater with Josh when a cute girl approached me smiling.

“Hi!”

“Hey,” it was tough to squeeze any enthusiasm through the dense opiate cloud.

“Can I braid your hair?”

It was an odd request, my hair had grown long enough that it could be braided, but not long enough to make for a very impressive one. But the thought of an attractive young female—one who wasn’t drunk—running her fingers through my hair sounded appealing. Haircuts were usually good for that.

“Sure.”

I turned around and the girl went to work braiding my hair while Josh mingled with the crowd. Through the smog in my mind, I heard a slurred voice, “What the fuck are you doing, bitch?”

Oh no.

I turned in time to see Tracy push the girl away. Reflexively, I grabbed her with both arms as she was going after the girl who was looking at Tracy with fear and confusion.

“Calm down. She was just braiding my hair. Jesus.”

“Fuck you! Tracy slobbered on me. And fuck you bitch!”

“I’m sorry,” I said to the girl, “she’s drunk. Again.”

I was turning red from embarrassment. I always preferred to be in the background. That was growing increasingly impossible with Tracy around.

I herded Tracy into the theater, with Josh walking beside us. She remained mostly quiet for the concert, but continued drinking heavily. She even bought beers for two girls who couldn’t have been older than thirteen.

When Nirvana finally appeared, a mosh pit formed in front of us. I wanted no part of that and remained in the back enjoying the concert—it was a small enough venue that even at the back of the crowd we were pretty close to the stage. Tracy decided she wanted to dance and tried to drag me into the throng of moshing grunges. I resisted and she went in alone, bouncing up and down and side to side in a drunken stupor. Her long, dark hair flying in all directions. It didn’t take long before she vomited all over herself and a few other people who weren’t too happy about the situation.

I wormed my way through the crowd, now a bit subdued by the horror of something that should remain exclusively in the Exorcist flying at them in terrible, lifelike 3D.

I pulled Tracy out of the crowd and set out to hunt down Josh, with her moaning and gurgling at my side, barely able to walk. As soon as I found him, he made no resistance at leaving early, with the condition in which Tracy had put herself.

What I saw of Nirvana was great. The concert wasn’t pretentious, showy or trite as the heavy metal concerts I’d been used to. I tried to look at the bright side. Someday, they’d come back to Kansas City and I could see them then.

Six months later, Kurt Cobain committed suicide.

I was sitting at the side of the desk in the station, staring out the south window. Across, the street was a row of trees. There were three trees in particular that always held my attention. If one looked at them from the right angle, the branches and leaves formed an almost perfect likeness of Albert Einstein. I wondered if Barbara Walters had worked at a gas station.

It was dark at the moment, so I couldn’t see the Einstein tree, only my frowning, translucent reflection in the window. Poopie was sitting at the desk, rambling on about something I couldn’t be bothered to follow. I watched as a pair of headlights pulled into the parking lot. I heard a car door shut and, a few moments later, Josh appeared in the office.

Poopie spun around in his chair, “Poop! Poop! Poop! Poop! Poop…”

Josh glanced at me, dumbfounded. I shrugged. I’d seen the behavior countless times before but couldn’t understand it any better than anyone else.

“Dude, what the fuck?!” Josh’s face reddened and he broke out in uncontrolled laughter which soon gave way to a deep hacking cough.

“Poop! Poop! Poop!”

I noticed a car pull into one of the lanes and stood up to get it, since it was on my island. Poopie jumped up, “I’ll get it! It’s Vanessa!”

Josh went into the backroom to smoke some pixie while Poopie hopped outside to service his beloved. I moved from side to side in my seat, trying to get a clear image of her. It was no use—she was obscured by the pumps. However, my luck was in—once Poopie had finished her gas, she pulled around into the parking lot and came inside with him.

Maybe beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder, maybe Tracy had forever ruined it for all other women I would ever meet. Or maybe Vanessa really was a grotesque slug. Whichever the case, I gasped audibly as what resembled a white pillow case filled with potatoes rolled into the office with Poopie.

I had always expected her to be somewhat wanting in the looks department, but I hadn’t expected it to be this bad. She was terribly overweight and had a permanent scowl etched onto her face. It could have been drawn on with the same pencil she had used to recreate her missing eyebrows. She was pale, but not pale enough I guess, since her face was coated with a thick cake of ghostly white makeup. She wore black lipstick and her bobbed hair was dyed blue-black. She wore an Ankh necklace and all-black clothing and was carrying a black umbrella. She reminded me of a demonic clown.

“Hey Darren! This is Vanessa! Poopie, this is Darren!”

“Hi,” she monotoned.

My nose subconsciously cringed, “Hey.”

“And that’s Josh in the back room.”

There was a cough and a weak, quivering, “Hey” from the back room.

“Wait, so you call her ‘Poopie’?” I observed.

“We call each other Poopie! It’s our pet name!”

“You call each other ‘shit’?”

There was more coughing and laughing from the back room and my own laughter drowned out Poopie’s response.

“Anyway, how’s it going Vanessa?”

“Okay, I guess. I hate this time of year. I hate the smell of life.”

I must admit, I admired the girl’s ability to kill a conversation. Except, in her case, she didn’t just let it die there. Instead, I spent the next half hour hearing about how much she hated life, anything alive and the sun.

Quietly, I managed to slip away into my own mind, away from the treatise on Death and the violent hacking echoing from the back room. Even during the previous epoch, with the constant buzzing-around of the pixies, the station hadn’t been this bad. It seemed to have lost something. It was just a shell of its former self. The days of crazy, carefree drugs had given way to serious, debilitating addictions. Toad had gone from plump and spirited to emaciated and withdrawn. Josh had gone from a wild partier to a slave of his pixie pipe.

* * *

It was a couple of months before I was finally scheduled an interview with Susan’s company. I threw on the only pair of jeans I owned that weren’t stained with oil or grease and put on a sweater and the boots I wore to work during the winter. It was the closest I ever came to dressing up.

I managed to get myself to the interview a few minutes early and met up with John, the head of the “Product Engineering” department. Just the name sent shivers down my spine. It reeked of corporate newspeak. What was wrong with just calling it the “Department that builds shit?”

The interview itself seemed to go well. John started by asking me a few questions and I remained mostly focused, only occasionally distracted by various cute women walking past the office from time to time. Eventually, the interview metamorphosed into an interesting conversation about electronics and computer programming. Before I knew it, we had spent an entire hour just chatting.

Finally, John brought the interview to an end, shaking my hand, “It was great talking with you. I’ll let you know in a couple of days what we can do for you.”

“Great! It was nice meeting you.”

I was certain I had bagged it.

* * *

That night, I stayed at Tracy and Star’s place. Tracy had the night off, so we decided to stay in and watch some movies and Jerry Springer reruns. We were in bed watching television when I heard a commotion outside

I scooted over to the window and opened the shade a bit so I could see what was happening. Tracy’s landlord was in his Bronco in the parking lot. The owner of the buildings on the other side of the lot was standing outside waving his fist at him.

“Holy shit, Tracy. You have to see this.”

Tracy scooted over next to me, “Oh God, not again!”

The two landlords yelled back and forth at each other, the exchange growing increasingly more charged. Tracy and I giggled at the display until, finally, her landlord put his Bronco into gear and tried to run over the other landlord, who ran inside one of his buildings.

“Holy shit!”

“Should we call the police?!”

“Fuck it. Let them kill each other.”

“Darren! That’s scary! Maybe we should go out.”

I rolled my eyes, “Let me guess, Sam’s Bar & Grill?”

Tracy shrugged.

“No, Tracy. Seriously, you need to quit drinking.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

“I’m not telling you what to do. I’m telling you what you need to do.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little hypocritical?”

“No. I didn’t go around telling people I loved how much they suck and how I hated them.”

“I don’t remember doing any of that.”

“Oh, so that makes it Okay? Look, I had the interview today and it went well. This is a big thing for me. Something I’m not entirely sure I want to do and I’m doing it for you. I’m doing it because I love you. So what am I supposed to think when you don’t want to quit drinking for me?”

“But it’s no big deal! I’m just young. I want to have some fun.”

“Well, if you call getting so wasted you can’t even remember what happened and then waking up in your own vomit ‘fun’… If it’s no big deal, then stop doing it.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll cut down. I’ll just stop drinking after a couple of beers. Happy?”

“Okay. Thank you.”

* * *

I sat at the desk with the small black and white television spewing forth a constant stream of poison, like Tracy’s alcohol-saturated vomit. Poopie was holed-up in the women’s restroom checking the plumbing. There wasn’t a customer in sight.

I browsed without interest through one of Vanessa’s magazines that Poopie had borrowed. It was some sort of goth publication and featured various models posing in coffins. I was interrupted by the phone.

It was John.

“Hey, Darren. Well, unfortunately, we can’t hire you in this department since you don’t have a degree.”

You wasted a fucking hour of my life. You knew I didn’t have one when I went in for the interview, you idiot. Fuck, I cut my hair for nothing.

“Okay.”

“But, I gave your resume to my friend over in Software Development. He’s interested in talking to you.”

I was shocked, “Really?”

“He’ll be giving you a call sometime before 6.”

“Okay! Thanks!”

“Take care!”

I hung up the phone and tossed the magazine over to Poopie’s section of the desk. On the cover, a pale blonde girl with false fangs smiled from a pink coffin.

I sat at the side of the desk covertly watching Toad sucking on his glass dick in the back room. The propane torch shook in his trembling hand. His sunken eyes and sallow cheeks were illuminated by the flame. He looked like death. The whole station looked like death to me now. Maybe it was all just in my head.

It struck me that all of my coworkers seemed to illustrate the times at work. Rick the Hick, Daryl and Daryl and Ted all shared traits with my stepfather. Roy and Josh worked with me when things were more easy-going and they reminded me of my first year in college. Dustin’s confusion and anxiety mirrored my own. Now, Toad eating himself alive with pixie dust and Poopie’s death-obsessed goth worship coincided with the dwindling clientele of the station and the stagnation of my life at that point. Maybe that was all just in my head too.

I wondered how many times I’d misinterpreted what someone had said to me, just because of the tinted plastic covering my mind’s eye. It made Shafto’s torment and my own drug abuse seem that much more significant. I had been programmed to see things through a certain lens. I made a mental note to be wary of that in the future.

My enjoyment of that brief moment of introspection was soon interrupted by Poopie’s arrival. He walked into the station, his gait reminding me somewhat of a gorilla. He breathed heavily.

“Poop!”

“Hey, Poopie.”

“Guess what!”

“I give up.”

“I’m finally going out with my little goth honey tonight!”

“Wow, Poopie.”

“I know!”

Toad scurried out of the backroom, his stringy hair and pale face covered with sweat. He grabbed the clipboard from the desk and set out to read the pumps.

Poopie was already at the credit card machine, making out a charge to pay for his hot date with Vanessa. He opened the top desk drawer where the charges were stored and placed his receipt atop the growing pile. He paused, examined the contents of the drawer for a moment, then removed a photograph.

“What in the Hell goes on here on the day shift?!”

He tossed the Polaroid onto the desk in front of me. I examined the picture. It was Pedro sitting in the chair I was now occupying. Kasey Bleau was sitting in Pedro’s lap. The dog’s tongue was hanging out and his tail-end was firmly planted against Pedro’s pelvis. His head tilted to one side. Pedro was holding Kasey Bleau firmly on either side, his hands grasping the dog’s hind hips. He had a smirk on his face that made him seem as though his deepest inner desires had just been sated.

I threw the picture back into the drawer, “Good God!”

If Kasey Bleau was the unwitting pawn in Toad’s constant “custody battles” with his wife, then this picture was child pornography.

“This place is so fucked up,” I sighed.

Still, I’d been there so long that the thought of leaving was like thinking about cutting my own hand off.

I spent the rest of the shift watching Poopie drink Kaopectate and eating Pepto Bismal. He was terrified he would have a bowelslide during his date. The more I watched him self-medicate and run back-and-forth to the women’s restroom, the more appealing a life with one hand seemed.

I sent him home early, ostensibly so he could start his date with Vanessa. In reality, I wanted to be free of his neuroses and left with my own.

I was in the middle of bringing in the trash cans when the phone rang.

“Phillips, this is Darren,” I answered, nervously watching the entrances to the station. It seemed to be a law of Nature that when someone called, or we got food, or I lit a cigarette, a car would pull in.

“Hi, Darren, this is Susan.”

Tracy’s sister.

A twinge of nervousness shot through my stomach. I wonder what this is about.

“Hey.”

“I need to talk to you. About Tracy.”

“Okay. But, can I call you back. I was just closing.”

“Well, I was calling to see if you would come over after work.”

“Yeah, sure, I can do that.”

“I’ll see you then.”

“Cool.”

That was an odd request. Or maybe it was all just in my head. It would be longer than I had expected before I found out, as Ms. Whipple pulled in before I could close.

* * *

I found myself in Susan’s kitchen with my signature Dr. Pepper. The kitchen seemed annoyingly bright but the wood chairs were comfortable. The floor was covered with some sort of faux-brick patterned linoleum. There was a single window on the wall behind the sink.

“Darren, I think Tracy may have a drinking problem.”

I wanted to tell her about all the drunken phone calls and how Tracy couldn’t remember anything about it the next day. I wanted to tell her—anyone—about how desolate it all made me feel. For some reason, it all embarrassed me. I was no good with speech. I wished this conversation could have happened through the mail.

A defeated “Yeah” was all I could muster in response.

“I think she’s depressed. She wants a family.”

“I’ve seen firsthand what alcohol does to ‘families’. I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

“Maybe if you made an effort to get a better job… showed your intents. What are your intents toward her?”

“I don’t know. What difference does it make what job I have? I’m sick of people trying to define me by what I do for money. I mean, it’s legal so who gives a shit.”

I wondered if Susan’s imagination was really so limited that she truly believed Tracy’s alcoholism had anything at all to do with my career. Maybe she was just desperate to find any excuse at all.

I gazed out the kitchen window. Darkness surrounded the house, kept at bay in this one room by that offensively bright light dangling from the ceiling like a convicted Nazi war criminal’s body from a noose.

“I know the manager of the product engineering department at work. He said he’d be interested in talking to you. Would you at least fill out an application and talk to him?”

“I don’t know anything about product engineering. Susan, I’ve dropped out of every single school I’ve ever gone to, starting all the way back in Sunday school, for Christ’s sake.”

“At least try.”

“Alright.”

Susan produced a job application which I filled out there in the kitchen so she could take it back with her in the morning.

“One thing though…”

I looked at her with suspicion.

“You’ll have to cut your hair.”

“Great.”

* * *

The product engineering manager called me early on my shift the next day. He scheduled an interview for the following week. I decided not to tell Toad, who was already traumatized by my short hair. Maybe more traumatized than I.

At least Poopie seemed to be in good spirits. He bounced into the station with a wide grin.

“Poop!”

“Hey, Poopie.”

“I did it, Darren!”

“Did what?”

“IT! I had sex with the goth honey!”

“Wow, what a slut.”

“What?!”

“Nothing.”

I couldn’t imagine the sort of animal that would willingly open itself to Poopie’s loins. The thought of his pale, naked body, moist and greasy, writhing in a bed with someone was etched into my head. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the image. I had to see this girl. I had to see just what kind of a fucked-up mess she was. If there was one thing in the world that could continuously hold my fascination, it was fucked-up messes.

“You should have her come by here sometime, Poopie.”

“Oh, I will! Don’t worry, you’ll get to meet her!”

“Thank God.”

“Right now, I gotta check the plumbing. I haven’t shit since yesterday morning. Poo-hoop!”

As Poopie trotted to the women’s restroom, it occurred to me he might not be completely sane. Maybe it was all just in my head.

I walked into the station and sat down on the old safe. Poopie was already there milling about the cigarette machine rambling on about a GWAR video he’d seen the night before. Pedro was sitting at the side of the desk receiving Toad’s legendary German petroleum industry conspiracy theory. I couldn’t resist.

“Oh man, that reminds me. We were talking about World War II in one of my college history classes.”

Toad eyed me warily. He seemed somewhat annoyed that I had interrupted. Pedro maintained his usual glassy stare.

“I think the historians have it totally wrong about Hitler.”

That seemed to get Pedro’s attention, “What da fuck do you mean?”

“Well, any man of honor, which Hitler clearly was, wouldn’t commit suicide in the middle of such an important mission as the one Germany was engaged in.”

“Brotha, you is fucked up!”

Toad’s eyes filled with disapproval, “Oh, this is rich.”

“No wait. I think Hitler’s subordinates lied to him. They told him that the Jewish population had been completely wiped off the Earth. I mean shit, look at the scale of their cleansing operation. Of course, he believed them. They were German after all.”

“Darren, what the hell are you talking about?” Toad was turning a deep red.

“Hitler killed himself because the mission was complete. He always feared he had Jewish blood in him. Once he saw his vision realized, he sacrificed himself for the greater good.”

“Man, that is some fucked up shit!” Pedro yelled, his yellowed eyes flashing for the first time ever.

Toad stroked his beard thoughtfully. Had Pedro been more subdued, Toad would have had an outburst of his own. He always had to be different.

“Well. Now we know why you dropped out of college.”

I chuckled, appreciating the good comeback, “Yeah. Guess I won’t be managing a gas station ten years from now.”

Toad had enough and responded by carrying the clipboard outside to read the pumps. Pedro started counting out his money.

“Darren, call the dating mailbox for me!”

“Oh Jesus, Poopie.”

Pedro’s jaw dropped.

“What did you jus’ call him?”

“Huh?”

“What da fuck did you jus’ call him?”

“Poopie?”

“Dat’s what I thought! You fuckin’ homo?”

“Dude, just count your money. Fuck.”

“I’m not a fucking fag!” Poopie protested, “Darren call the mailbox!”

“Fine.”

I dialed the number, which I had memorized over the past few weeks. Poopie had renewed the ad in what appeared to be a futile effort at attracting a mate. He would change it slightly from week-to-week, fumbling for the right words that might net him a juicy catch.

I punched in the access code and waited for the usual response so I could, once again, tell Poopie what a Big Zero he was, “You have. ONE. message.”

“Oh my God.” I held the phone out to Poopie, “You got one, dude.”

Poopie lunged for the phone and pressed the “1” button.

“Holy shit! Vanessa! She’s a goth! She’s into piercings! And black leather! And bondage!”

“Sounds like a real catch, Poopie.”

Poopie slammed the phone back into its cradle and jumped up about an inch—the most his atrophied muscles could squeeze out against the force of gravity.

“I have to go shit!” He yelled, running to the women’s restroom.

Toad finished the shift-change and left me alone in the office, with Poopie still “checking the plumbing” in the women’s restroom. I picked up the Kansas City Star and shuffled the papers to the classifieds section. I had been trying to find a cheap car that sounded like it would at least pass the state inspection.

I was rewarded with a surprise of my own.

“FOR SALE: 1990 Ford Probe. Engine in great condition. Body badly damaged. All service records available. $300.”

I couldn’t believe it. Maybe there really was a God at work. I called the listed number and asked if the car had been sold yet. I told the owner I would be there to look at it that night after work.

Immediately after hanging up the phone, I grabbed a credit card slip and filled it out—Lee generously loaned me another three hundred dollars.

That night Toad drove me to examine the Probe. It was a light-colored car, but the same basic model as Tracy’s old one. I started it up and it ran perfectly. It was even drivable, despite the entire passenger side being smashed in from what looked to have been a particularly horrific accident.

I gladly handed the owner the three hundred dollars, took the title and drove the car to my place with Toad following me.

* * *

Initially, I had planned on taking the engine and the old Probe to some shop and paying a real mechanic to install the new engine. Toad, in his pixified state, decided he would teach me how to do it myself. I was a bit nervous, with visions of the Family Truckster still fresh in my mind, but decided Lee’s generosity had probably neared its limit.

Normally, I had nothing but complete disdain for anything pixie. But I found it easy to tolerate Toad’s superhuman energy. We put profound amounts of work into meticulously dismantling the old engine from the Probe. Once it was out, I cleaned up all of the parts we would be reusing on the replacement engine. I also cleaned the new engine and repainted it.

We worked until 1, 2 and sometimes 3 in the morning every day for two weeks. Every night, I would come home completely black with grease. Sometimes, Tracy would call and I would give her a status report. Every night, I would sleep deeply from exhaustion.

* * *

It was about 1am when I got in the Probe and turned the key for the first time since replacing the engine. It took a couple of tries but it soon started… and ran… and continued to run. I hopped out and examined the engine—no horrible wheezing. I was so elated, it must have overloaded some neural pathways in my brain. I couldn’t even experience the elation. I was probably in shock. Toad and I celebrated with a beer and I returned home in the Probe and took a long shower to wash away the sweat and car grease. I fell into my nest of blankets, exhausted. The phone rang.

I picked up the phone, knowing it was Tracy. I couldn’t wait to tell her the good news—I had saved the Probe, thus preserving an artifact of her mother.

“Hey!”

I heard a slur of unintelligible speech. The only thing recognizable was the tone and pitch that always brought me so much warmth.

“What?”

“I fhuchking hhate yhou!”

“Jesus fucking Christ. You’re drunk. Go to fucking bed.”

I hung up the phone and it rang again a few seconds later. I unplugged it and went to the kitchen and unplugged the phone mounted on the wall.

Something inside me went cold. Not the kind of cold from something that’s been in a refrigerator, nor the kind I’d felt outside on some winter evening. It was the cold of death—a little ball of death swelling up from an infinitesimally small point like a tumor somewhere in the pit of my stomach. I had to think. I had to be alone with nothing but the curvature of the Earth around me and infinite dark above. I got in the Probe and drove.

I’ve lived in the same general area all of my life, but I’ve progressively moved further south. I can get in a car and head north and it’s like a three hour trip back in time. I headed into the past.

I passed a row of radio towers sitting out in the middle of some overgrown field, the red lights atop blinking rhythmically. They seemed evil, like that pulse was trying to become the beat of my heart to turn me into an emotionless machine—the armature man of which I had dreamt during an opiate mindbath.

I drove by the pixie pads—giant beehives of strange people I probably wouldn’t want to know. People stacked atop one another like canned meat.

I drove by Willie’s dilapidated house, with the floodlights coming on to alert the Pit Bulls of some hapless prey straying into their sites. If I’d had the window down, I could probably have heard them barking furiously in their mindless hatred.

I passed the spot where I’d been arrested on my way to Shafto’s house. It was empty now—he’d moved after being convicted of molesting a little girl. Nobody had moved into it yet. It was as dark and empty as I was.

I went to my grandparents’ old house. Where it had all started. The only place that could bring me comfort. A new family had long since occupied it. All the trees were gone—the giant cottonwood from which my grandmother always warned my cousins and me to stay away and the orchard in the back. The white fence had been torn down and the garden turned to lawn. The state had bought the pasture in the back, where we used to have cows and horses behind the orchard, and it was now overgrown with weeds.

And there it ended. My life in a three hour drive, like walking through a crypt with each casket holding a long-dead point in my life. I thought little about Tracy during the trip, focusing more on the memories preserved in each place like flies caught in amber. But my subconscious thought about it and it had reached a decision. I wasn’t aware of it at a conscious level, but I felt at peace.

I returned home and put in Beethoven’s ninth—it always inspired me. I realized things in the universe always repeat at vastly different scales. If one were able to think of scale in a different way—it wasn’t just about size, it was also about ontology. Spirals appear in seashells and galaxies. Spheres show up in water droplets and stars. Matter and energy can’t be created or destroyed, only converted from one form to another. And so it was with pain—it couldn’t be created or destroyed, only transferred from one person to another or converted into something else. Tracy was numbing hers and transferring it to me, just as I had done with painkillers—transferring my anguish to those around me. But Tracy taught me to stop the transfer and take the other path. Mine had been converted into love.

Toad went to the CD player and put in Abbey Road, forwarding the track to “Here Comes the Sun.” He adjusted the volume carefully and lowered his head in what appeared to be a private prayer, “We have to set the right atmosphere.”

I wasn’t about to argue. If the good karma of the Beatles would help in any way, I was all for it.

Toad dropped a quarter into the pay-phone and dialed a number, “Yeah, this is Toad. I was calling about the Probe head.”

I couldn’t see the reaction on his face, but the few seconds of utter silence were maddening.

“Uh-hu.”

That sounded like it had potential.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah” was a positive word.

“Oh. Thank God!”

I thanked John, George, Paul and Ringo. I may have even broken my own rule against dancing and done a small jig.

Toad hung up the phone, “The head was warped, they were able to resurface it. It looks like it’s going to be okay!”

“Oh my God!”

I forget the exact cost now, not that it mattered anyway. I went over and grabbed a credit card slip and made a charge for the full amount, “This is going to hurt Lee a hell of a lot more than it’s going to hurt me.”

I signed my name to the slip and counted out the cash, giving it to Toad. He took it with him to the shop to pick up the repaired head.

Poopie wasn’t as elated as I was. It had been three days and his personal ad hadn’t yet netted him any responses. Everything always seemed to be a ritual with Poopie—from his bathroom habits, to our daily pizza dinner, to me calling to check his personal ad mailbox for him.

“Come on Darren. There’s going to be a reply today. Call it up!”

I was happy to dial the number. I knew what the response would be and it gave me a perverse joy to report the results to Poopie. I altered the default message on the machine into one that seemed more appropriate to me. I punched in Poopie’s access code and waited for the computerized voice. I hung up the phone grinning.

“You are a. Big. ZERO.”

“Goddamnit! I hate that damn machine, Darren!”

I wondered if he really thought those were the exact words the machine was using. I admit, it was more fun that it probably should have been. But that damn machine didn’t know just how many ways it had it right. Poopie was, in fact, a Big Zero.

Poopie rubbed his stomach and recited the line he stole from “Happy Days” whenever “Al” would test a new dish on someone, ”Not so good, Al.”

“What the fuck is wrong with your damn guts anyway? I have never seen someone so obsessed with their own shit!”

“I don’t know, man. I keep going to the doctor and they always tell me something different. I told you I’m lactose intolerant.”

“Whatever. Have you had this problem your whole life or what?”

“Not really. It started when I burned my house down.”

“What?!”

“I burned my parents’ garage down.”

“Jesus Christ. How the fuck did that happen?”

“I was huffing gas and lit a cigarette. They sent me to a rehab for a while. I think it’s when I started huffing gas that my stomach got all fucked up.”

“So you get a job at a gas station. Good call.”

“I’ve always wanted to work here, man. You guys were my heroes. Ever since I started coming here on my bicycle to buy cigarettes, I’ve always wanted to be one of you Phillips guys.”

“That’s probably the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“I’m going to go check the plumbing in the women’s restroom. The Kaopectate isn’t doing the job.”

“Knock yourself out, dude.”

Toad returned with the repaired head before Poopie ever made it out of the bathroom and we set about replacing it into the Probe without a single customer showing up. Business was plummeting. Lee was spending more on employee charges than he was making in a week, thanks mostly to Toad’s pixie habit. As much as I hated everything pixie, I didn’t mind using Toad’s newfound energy to help get the Probe running.

It took us a couple of hours to get the head gasket in place, all the head bolts tightened down properly and all the hoses and wires restored. The moment of truth had arrived. We didn’t have a CD player outside, so there were no Beatles songs to lend us karmic aid.

Nervously, I got in the Probe, put the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine cranked over and started. My initial surprise and elation was immediately washed away like the contents of the women’s toilet after being flushed by Poopie’s cold, clammy hand. The horrible, sickly wheezing sound returned.

Toad stood over the engine, his head lowered and shaking from side to side, “The block is cracked man. This car’s fucked.”

“Oh, dude.”

“Do you need a ride home tonight?”

“Nah. I can get a ride from Tracy. I don’t know how I’m getting to work tomorrow though.”

“Well, you can use the Woody until you find another car.”

The Woody was a small wood-paneled hatchback Toad kept as a spare car.

“That’s cool man, I appreciate it.”

“We should probably get the Probe to my place. Lee’s a bit twitchy about having cars broken down in the parking lot since the deal with Dustin’s van.”

“Yeah.”

I was heartbroken. I had failed Tracy. I felt like I had just killed her mother all over again.

Toad left, telling me he would return with his wife to drop off the Woody. I went inside and sat at the desk to stare morosely out the window.

One of our few remaining regulars came in. She was an attractive blonde, in her mid to late thirties. She was always talkative and always tipped well, even for the most routine service. She made the unfortunate mistake of pulling in on Poopie’s island. Normally, I would have gotten her anyway to spare her the horror of Poopie’s special brand of service, but I was too depressed to even move.

Poopie stood up, the chain connecting his wallet to his jeans rattling against the desk, “Oh fuck!”

He stomped outside and started the woman’s gas, leaning against her car with his hand squeezing the pump so the gas flowed at full speed. It splashed back all over him when it shut off. Poopie replaced the gas cap and tromped around to collect the woman’s credit card, cursing the entire way.

Poopie was less than happy as he carried the card back inside to process it, “Fucking bitch!”

“Dude, shut the fuck up. They can hear you all the way down at Amoco.”

“Fuck that bitch!”

I heard the car door open and my face reddened. I dropped my head to the desk as the woman walked inside, “I’ve been coming to this gas station for years and never had a problem with anyone here! I’m not a bitch, you’re a fucking asshole and I’m never coming back here again!”

Poopie remained silent and embarrassed as he ran her credit card and gave her the slip to sign. She tore off the carbon and threw it at his face, “Fucking asshole!” Then she stomped out the station, never to return. I could probably count the number of customers we had on one hand by now.

“Great going, Poopie. She’s always been cool. She always tipped too.”

“Fuck her!”

“Actually, I think she just fucked you, buddy.”

I arrived at the station my usual fifteen minutes late and walked in and sat down on the safe. I was concerned about the water pump either going bad or being completely destroyed in the Probe, but my worry was soon replaced by an air of weirdness in the room. Pedro was sitting at the side of the desk drinking whiskey from a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag and Toad was drinking his usual vodka and Mountain Dew cocktail.

They were both extremely drunk. Poopie was usually closer to being on time than I was, but he hadn’t gotten there yet and I had interrupted an especially poignant moment between Toad and Pedro and they ignored my entrance into the office.

Pedro took a swig from his brown paper bag, “…yeah man, there’s something to that shit.

Like those people who let snakes bite them and they don’t get hurt. And people speaking

in tongues.”

Toad reddened, put his hands over his eyes and started bawling, “I’ve seen tongues!” He

got out of his chair and wobbled into the restroom to yank a tissue off the roll. He dabbed at his teary eyes, “I’ve seen tongues!” He closed the door to the restroom and all I could hear were loud howls of emotion.

Pedro began to weep, evidently equally touched by the Holy Spirit. Goddamnit, where was Poopie when I needed him? I just sat on the safe and watched this train wreck in quiet fascination.

One of our regulars pulled in. It was “Belly Boy”—so named because of his enormous gut which he proudly displayed by wearing his shirt completely unbuttoned. Toad called him “Belly Berdella,” after Kansas City’s notorious serial killer, Bob Berdella. Belly Boy was short and balding with blonde hair around the sides of his head that curled outward at the ends. He had a blonde mustache and wore glasses. He liked to flirt with us. I hadn’t officially started my shift yet, as nobody had counted their money or read the pumps, but even Belly Boy was better than what was going on in the office and Belly always used a credit card, so I wouldn’t have to make change.

Belly Boy got out of his car while I started his gas and cleaned his windshield. He was wearing his usual blue flip-flops and I determined he must be in high spirits, as his belly was round, firm and deeply tanned. He was telling me all about his wild weekend at the “Winnebago” which I guessed must have been some sort of gay dance club popular with the forty-plus crowd. Once I finished the windshield, I saw Poopie getting out of his car. I smiled, knowing what he was about to walk into.

As I was finishing up Belly’s gas, Poopie came outside with a look of horror on his face, “what in the hell is going on in there?”

I shook my head and shrugged; I’m sure Poopie realized no halfway reasonable person could possibly be expected to answer that question. Belly gave me his credit card and, as I took it back inside, he tried to talk Poopie into coming over Friday night for a beer. I wondered if there was any place on the planet that was free of psychotic enraptured drunks and serial killer homosexuals.

There must have been something in the gas vapors that night. As I sat trying to watch the television, Poopie insisted on pestering me with the details of his love-life, or lack thereof.

“Man, I need a woman.”

The thought of Poopie with a woman sent chills down my spine and the logical conclusion—what could be created if he did have a woman—was unspeakably offensive. I considered it my duty to give my very life in order to keep Poopie from procreating.

“What do you want a woman for? They’re nothing but trouble.”

“Oh, that’s easy for you to say, you have Tracy. I need some lovin’!”

“Oh my God.”

Something sick and twisted bubbled up from the depths of my subconscious. This could be extraordinarily fun. I was passing up the opportunity of a lifetime here! What the hell was wrong with me?

“You know they have personals in the Pitch. I think it’s free to place an ad. You should put one in there and see if you find someone.”

The Pitch was a local alternative newspaper. The personal ads in it reminded me of advertisements I’d seen in comic books as a kid.

Poopie’s eyes lit up, “That’s a good idea, man! You like to write stuff, help me write an ad!”

“No.”

Poopie struggled for the rest of the shift to craft the perfect personal ad. He mentioned his love of “Beavis and Butthead,” obscure goth bands and the “Crow.” After tormenting my eyes by reading over the short blurb and correcting numerous spelling errors, I told Poopie I thought it was ready for the public.

Shaking, he dumped a quarter into the pay-phone and dialed the number. He read the ad to the poor fool on the other end of the line. It reminded me of one of the dumb kids trying to wade through a paragraph in a book when the teacher made us take turns reading aloud in school. Poopie was given an access code he could use to check his personals “mailbox.” The ad would appear in the paper the next day and would run for a week. I could barely contain my excitement. If nothing else, I would get to witness the dregs of Kansas City society through Poopie’s dating adventures.

My excitement had to take a back seat to other concerns, though. I needed to replace the water pump on the Probe. I went down to the auto parts store and set about installing the new pump. Whatever customers hadn’t been chased off by the pixies were being run off by Poopie, so I had few interruptions.

Once the new pump was installed, I started the car and noticed a horrible wheezing sound coming from the engine. I got out and analyzed the situation under the hood. There was exhaust bubbling up into the radiator overfill tank. This wasn’t a good sign. The Probe wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

Fortunately, Tracy didn’t have to work that night and was able to give me a ride home. We stopped at a pub on the way and sat in a quiet booth. Tracy ordered several beers while I drank Dr. Pepper.

“Darren, you have to promise me to get the Probe running. My mom drove that car,” She took a gulp of Jagermeister.

“Don’t worry. I’ll do everything I can.”

Tracy motioned for the waitress and got another beer.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough of those?”

“You’re the last person to be talking about taking too much of anything.”

I shrugged, conceding her point before realizing that I wasn’t being hypocritical, I was trying to help her to not make the same mistakes I had, “Yeah, and I know what taking too much of anything can do to you. Do you want to walk around swallowing your own vomit?”

Tracy eyed me glassily. It was too late. At this point, she had enough beer in her that nothing I said would get through to any part of her consciousness. She was operating from a different part of her brain now.

Two girls walked up to the table out of the darkness of the pub. One put her hand on my shoulder, “Do you go to CMSU?”

“Ummm. No. I went to Park College for a bit. But I dropped out.”

Tracy gave the girl a look that almost caused my intestines to squeeze their contents into my underwear, “Fuck off, bitch!”

“Tracy! Chill out! Fuck!”

The girl patted me on the shoulder, in what seemed like a gesture of pity and walked away with her friend. Tracy glared at them until they disappeared into the darkness.

“So, what, you’re fuckin’ other chicks now?”

“Tracy, what?! Come on. Let’s go.”

“Fine.”

I paid for the drinks and helped Tracy into the passenger side of her Jeep. I drove us to my mother’s place where we both slept on the small nest of blankets I had collected as a bed on the floor. At random points throughout the night, I would awake to the sound of Tracy heaving and then spend twenty minutes cleaning her vomit off the carpet, blankets and her long, black hair.

* * *

The next day, I had Toad look at the Probe with me. He told me he suspected the head had been warped from the overheating caused by the bad water pump. He helped me remove the head and took it to a shop to have them check it out, leaving me with Poopie and his personal ad mailbox number.

“Darren, will you check my mailbox for me? I’m too nervous!”

“Dude?”

“Come on, please?”

“Fine.”

I dialed the number and navigated the simple menu system until I was prompted to enter the mailbox number. I punched in the digits and waited a few seconds while the computer on the other end no doubt laughed to itself at the incredible lameness of Poopie’s ad. Eventually, a taped voice replied, “You. Have. ZERO. Messages.”

I laughed and hung up the phone.

“Well?”

“You. Have. ZERO. Messages.”

“Goddamnit!”

“Oh don’t worry, Poopie. It’s the first day. You still have a whole week.”

“Yeah, you’re right! I have to go shit!”

“Good luck with that, Poopie.”

I remember my fourth birthday vividly. My grandparents, on my mother’s side, gave me my first bicycle. My grandfather privately gave me a plastic rifle that shot rubber pellets. It came with a set of plastic animals for me to shoot. My mom and dad gave me a set of Lincoln Logs. Lincoln Logs are a collection of wooden and plastic pieces that can be put together to make buildings—mainly log cabins. That was my favorite gift.

My mother gave them to me as soon as I awoke that morning. I went into my parents’ bedroom to get my dad up to help me build something. He yelled at me to leave him alone. I’ve always been thankful to him for teaching me at such a young age never to rely on anyone but myself.

I took my can of Lincoln Logs into the living room and dumped it out onto the floor. I sat on the cold hardwood, snapping logs together while surrounded by plastic animals and rubber pellets that would be forever lost. As I was figuring out how to construct my first log cabin, I was unaware that the most beautiful girl I would ever meet was being born somewhere in Kentucky.

Twenty one years later, Tracy and I exchanged gifts in the living room of her apartment. My gift to Tracy was a crystal butterfly and a card I made for her. The card was half-inspired by the pixies, who spent countless days obsessively creating psychotic collages. I began with a piece of green construction paper, as that was Tracy’s favorite color. I folded it in half and on the front I wrote, “I thought I would never meet a girl who was kind and artistic and smart and strong and beautiful, until I saw this… (open)” On the inside, I pasted a piece of thin, reflective material so that when she opened the card, she would see her reflection. The card was a big hit.

Tracy gave me a thin, rectangular gift wrapped in blue paper, as that was my favorite color. It had to be a book, but I couldn’t even begin to guess which one it might be. I opened the package and found a journal with M. C. Escher’s “Belvedere” print on the cover. She knew me so well. I hopped up off the couch and hugged her, grinning, and went and grabbed a pen from the kitchen. I shoved the journal at Tracy, “Here, sign it!”

“What?”

“Autograph the inside cover!”

“God, I’m not going to sign it,” she laughed.

“Come on, Tracy.”

She grabbed the journal from me and signed her name, “God, you are such a freak!”

Tracy and I celebrated a bit before I had to prepare myself for work. I went home and put the journal away in my bookshelf. I couldn’t bring myself to defile it with my meaningless scribbling. I had moved back in with my mother after leaving the pixie pad. It was a good forty five minute drive between there and Tracy’s. The gas station sat almost exactly halfway between the two. I spent some time in my room just lying around until I had to leave for work. My mind wandered across a vast landscape of dreams as I drove to work—my past with Tracy, our future, what I would do about finding a better job, whether a perfect replica of a person’s brain would result in a shared consciousness. I was so immersed in my subconscious, I didn’t notice the temperature warning on the dashboard.

Things at the station had changed significantly. The era of the pixie was over, but there were some battle scars. Aaron had left for Arizona to study motorcycle mechanics. He was replaced by Pedro, which wasn’t his real name. Pedro was the man who had impregnated and later married Ted’s daughter, much to Daryl and Daryl’s dismay.

Dustin worked about two more weeks at the station after I moved out. He quit one day without notice and headed south where his mother lived. His new home was, coincidentally, a booming pixie town.

The pixie infestation had run off at least fifty percent of our customers. Toad was left with a bad habit. He continued to run up thousands of dollars in charges to support his pixie obsession. Every day I would come in to work and find Toad in the back room, holding his flaming butane torch up to a pipe. His eyes would be eerily lit by the torch and his cheeks were sunken as he sucked obscenely on his glass dick.

I would sit on the safe and watch him, covertly, with his own words echoing through my head, “Moderation is the key.”

Dustin was replaced by Poopie. My first encounter with Poopie was when he was a twelve-year-old kid. He would ride his bicycle to the station to buy cigarettes, since we’d sell them to anyone with money. Toad’s paranoia put an end to that and it pretty much got to the point where we only sold cigarettes to ourselves. Though, we’d have a few especially lazy customers that would have us go inside and get them cigarettes and soda.

Poopie treated almost everyone equally bad. Usually, I’d shake my head, “Dude, he would have given you a tip if you hadn’t been such an asshole. That guy always tips.”

“Fuck him!” was his usual response.

Poopie fancied himself a true goth—not one of those “poseur” goths that listened to Nine Inch Nails or Type O Negative. But even if you liked or knew who Dead Can Dance or Danzig were, you could still be in danger of being placed on Poopie’s shit-list. After several months, I finally worked out the complex hierarchy of his subculture ranking system. It basically boiled down to: “If you don’t like Marilyn Manson, you suck.” This was before Marilyn Manson became somewhat well known, at which point Poopie decided he was a sellout and moved on to some other band.

Poopie was loud and obnoxious. He was about 5’6″ and 210 pounds, pale and covered with moles. His natural hair color was brown, but he dyed it blue and then green. He wore jeans, a Misfits or Marilyn Manson shirt and black boots. He had a wallet attached to his belt loop with a chain.

It wasn’t long before I gave him the nickname that everyone (including some customers) called him from then on. Poopie was obscenely obsessed with his own bowel movements. It almost seemed like a control issue with him. He would constantly eat Immodium AD because of his fear of defecating in a public place. He told me that once he got home, he would eat Ex-Lax so he could finally relieve himself. It seemed anything he ate would send his stomach into spastic fits, but especially pizza; he claimed it was because he was lactose intolerant.

If only he had known. Telling me that was like handing a terrorist a nuclear bomb and a free boat ride to New York City. Every single night it was the same:

“I’m hungry,” I would grin.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Let’s call Pizza Shoppe.”

“I CAN’T!”

“Fuck it, Poopie. Let’s call them!”

“I know what you mean when you say that. ‘It’ is me… I’m ‘it’… you’re saying ‘fuck me’…” he pointed to himself.

I laughed, not denying the accusation, “Come on, dude, we gotta eat.”

“Oh, fine!”

And so, every night he would give in. I would happily go and pick up the pizza, sometimes one for each of us, and bring it back to the station. It wouldn’t be long afterward that Poopie’s stomach would be causing him no end of hell. Eventually, he wouldn’t be able to take it one moment longer and he would run into the women’s restroom yelling in a loud falsetto, “Poop! Poop! Poop!”

I made it to work and sat on the safe, completely detached from my surroundings. I’d given in to the fact that the gas station was just going to be filled with insanity no matter who worked there.

And what does that say about me?

Poopie stomped in with his black boots and sat on the window sill. He and Pedro had been having a conversation for several minutes before I started paying attention.

“How come you use the name Pedro?” Poopie asked.

“That’s my gang name.”

“Gang name?”

“I’m an O.G. Back in Los Angeles.”

“What?!”

“An O. G. An Original Gangster.”

“Oh bullshit! You don’t look Italian to me. Those are the fucking original gangsters!”

“Shit.”

I wished I hadn’t started paying attention. Soon, there was enough of a lull in business that Toad was able to do the shift change. He and Pedro left and Poopie laughed obnoxiously, “Fucking nigger.”

I looked at Poopie with disdain, “Man, I’m hungry. Let’s get a pizza.”

* * *

That night, I drove Tracy to meet her dad, sister and brother-in-law at Sam’s Bar and Grill. Sam’s was run by a customer at the station named Rudy. He agreed to have a local radio station personality come in and deejay for our birthday celebration. I had a burger and chain-drank Dr. Pepper while Tracy took advantage of her newfound legality and drank every alcoholic beverage she could remember to name.

Tracy, in inebriated bliss, decided she wanted to dance—an activity which I felt should be the exclusive domain of lesser primates. After several minutes of begging, she finally gave up and dragged her brother-in-law out to the dance floor, leaving me with her sister and dad.

“So you and Tracy really love each other,” Robert asked.

“Yeah,” I replied, unsure that I wanted to have that particular conversation at that exact moment, if ever.

“You should probably start looking for a real job. You know, a career. You can’t pump gas all your life.”

I was right. I didn’t want to have that conversation, “Yeah.”

Susan lit a cigarette, “Well, I know the guy who runs the technical repair department where I work. Do you want me to talk to him about a job? You would have insurance and everything.”

“Sure, that’d be cool.”

That was the most exciting news I’d had in a while. Susan had taken a job at a local company that manufactured and sold computer peripherals through the mail. That could be a really nice job. Right up my alley.

As the night wore on, Tracy became drunk out of her mind. Everyone decided it would be best if we called it a night. I walked Tracy out to the Probe and put her in the passenger seat, fastening the seat belt around her slumped-over body. A stream of drool oozed out of her mouth and onto her blouse. Her family came to the car and wished us a happy birthday. Tracy replied with a slurred, “Fuck you!”

As I drove her home, I noticed the engine temperature light on the dashboard. I didn’t smell anything strange from the heat vents and we were halfway to Tracy’s apartment, so I ignored it.

We made it back to Tracy’s in one piece. Star was asleep and I carried Tracy’s limp, drooling body inside, stripped her clothes off and put her in her water bed. I filled a glass of water and put it on her nightstand. I decided not to risk overheating the car and got in bed with Tracy. As I floated to sleep on the waves of the water-filled mattress, I dreamt of what life would be like without the gas station. For the first time in what seemed like forever, that dream began to take on solid form.

My ticket away from the pixie pad came in the form of a letter from the apartment manager notifying us they were increasing our rent. All I had to do was muster the motivation to find another apartment and write a letter declaring my intent to terminate the lease.

It was early in the shift at the station and I sat with Dustin looking through apartment listings. He was as anxious for me to leave as I was so he could move Wayland in with him. I think I cramped his pixie lifestyle. My apartment search was interrupted by the phone.

“Phillips, this is Darren.”

“I’m sorry, Darren. It was an accident.” Jack’s voice was shaking.

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

The line went dead, leaving me to spend the next five hours fearing the worst. Jack hadn’t been to work all week. He spent every day sitting in the recliner, holding bizarre conversations with the cats. The only things he put in his body for five days were vodka, pixie dust, and cocaine. There was a lot of drama about it. Jack’s sister called daily wailing for a half hour about what would become of her dear brother. His coworkers and employers at the grocery store would call and explain in annoying detail how they wanted to help him through this. Halfway through the week, they talked Jack into coming back to work. A few hours into his shift, he was called into his boss’ office.

Jack was leery of the invitation, “Why? Are you a fag? Just admit it, Ted.” Jack always referred to that Jane’s Addiction Song, which he was convinced was about homosexuality.

He was sent home to resume his vodka/accelerant binge.

I pulled into the apartment complex and saw Dustin’s car in the parking lot. I also saw Tracy’s Jeep. She was supposed to be working. I felt that horrible rush approaching from the distance—the rush that carried a nasty panic attack with it. If that call earlier in the day had anything to do with her…

I ran up the three flights of stairs as fast as my nicotine-and-tar-coated lungs would allow. I opened the door and saw Tracy sitting on the floor. Dustin was in the recliner and Jack was on the couch. There were two pizzas in the middle of their circle. Tracy was quiet and looked at me with a frown. A steady flow of adrenaline began coursing through my veins, “What’s going on?”

“My sister had some pizza delivered. I’m not eating. You can have some if you want,” Jack slurred, “I’m sorry, Darren.”

I looked at Tracy, “Sorry about what?”

Jack raised a wobbly hand and motioned behind me, “Your CDs.”

All of my Beatles and Led Zeppelin CDs were opened and strewn across the counter behind me. I grabbed one and examined it, then another, and another. They were all coated with some sort of sticky goo, “Goddamnit, what the fuck is this shit?”

“I’m sorry, Darren. I spilled my vodka.”

“Just shut up.”

I dug up some window cleaner and sprayed it on a CD, then wiped it off carefully with a cloth. I put it in the player and it worked fine. I tried another. They were all undamaged, “Dude, you’re freaking out over nothing. They’re fine. Forget about it.”

I sat down next to Tracy and had a couple of slices of pizza. She remained silent. I could feel the tension in her. Jack was eyeing her closely, “You know, Tracy, you’re really pretty,” Jack emitted a nervous speed-induced cackle.

I chuckled. Even if we weren’t so deeply involved, Tracy would never have anything to do with someone like him.

Jack quickly stood up, spilling vodka all over himself, the floor, the couch and the pizza, “You want to start some shit, Darren? Come on, I’ll fucking put an end to it right now.”

I was shocked by his sudden mood swing. He went from barely conscious to enraged in a fragment of time immeasurably small, “Dude, sit down. You’re fucked up.”

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

Tracy turned red and stood up, jabbing her finger at Jack’s face, “Sit down and leave him alone! I hate you! I hate you!”

Dustin sat back in the recliner, “Jack, if you fuck with him, then you’re fucking with me too. He’s my blood. I’m not putting up with any of your shit. I’ll kill you.”

I felt a pounding headache coming on. I found the drama deeply embarrassing, and wondered how long it would be before Jerry Springer contacted all of us. “Everyone just settle down. Damn.”

I stood and took Tracy by the hand, “Come on, let’s go hang out in my room.”

We shut the bedroom door behind us. Joon was a lump under the blankets I had strewn in a pile on the floor as a bed. I could hear the muffled blur of Jack’s voice through the door.

“God, I hate him, Darren. He’s been hitting on me ever since I got here with the pizza.”

“I know. I have to get out of this shit-hole. I have five days left to find an apartment.”

My door flung open, “Yeah, run and hide in your room like a fag, Darren. You’re no man. I’ll end your little life right here and now and show your little girlfriend what a whore she really is.” Jack laughed obnoxiously and headed back to the living room, leaving my door open.

Of all the drugs I ever took, none caused me to completely lose control—as much as I sought the relief of that experience. But Jack’s voice shredded through my head like Shafto’s. Something alien took over my body. I was conscious of my surroundings, but it seemed to be at a lower level than usual. There seemed to be a black mist around the images I was seeing with my eyes. My body went numb, then vanished and my mind withdrew… somewhere… like Kalyptis disappearing into the night after a 3-story plunge.

Like a robot, I stood and went to my closet and took out my Grandpa’s old rifle. I grabbed a bullet out of a desk drawer and loaded the gun. I put my finger on the trigger and headed for the living room. There was only one thought in my head: kill Jack.

In that moment of rage, I heard a voice. It was pure and sweet and it reached a part of me that had just been shoved aside, “Darren, don’t!”

My heart almost broke from the fear and pleading in that voice. I stopped. My arms and legs were weak and shaking. My head was spinning and my heart racing. I dropped to the floor and put my head in my hands. I drew on my experience from the days on painkillers to fight back the contractions in my stomach that signaled an impending vomit.

“Tracy, I can’t stay here tonight. I need to stay with you.”

“Let’s go.”

I grabbed Joon in one hand and held onto the rifle in the other. Tracy followed me into the living room. I kept the rifle aimed at Jack, “You just sit the fuck there and keep your motherfucking mouth shut.” I was still shaking.

I think that moment snapped Jack back into the real world the way Tracy’s voice had done for me. He sat motionless on the couch. His eyes were watering and filled with terror. He didn’t utter a word—just quietly watched as we left the apartment.

That night, I slept next to Tracy with such peace as I hadn’t experienced in a very long time, if ever. The next day I gave the apartment manager a letter notifying them I would be terminating the lease and she could work out a new lease with my cousin if she wanted.

Jack hadn’t stopped his binge that night I left holding him at gunpoint and Dustin kicked him out. A few days later, Peter and Wayland were hanging out at the pixie pad with Dustin. They heard a pounding on the door, “Come on, let me in! I hear you guys in there! Dustin let me in! I’m going to kill you!”

They tried to remain silent, but Jack was persistent. He continued to pound on the door and yell a stream of nonsense at the top of his lungs.

Peter had enough, “Dustin, if he’s threatening to kill you, go call the police. Where’s your shotgun?”

Dustin went to the closet and got his loaded gun and gave it to Peter. He and Wayland went outside and held Jack there until the police arrived.

The police ran Jack’s name through their computer and could find no trace of him anywhere—he had been using an alias the entire time. They took him to jail and eventually figured out who he was. He went back to prison for violating his parole and nobody has heard from him since.

I had my first panic attack in an Art Appreciation class, of all places. The teacher was rambling on about something I didn’t bother to care about. The window to the classroom was open toward the hill where the observatory sat. I was listening to the mysterious bagpipe player—I’d always found that sound stirring for some reason.

I never did get a satisfactory answer as to the identity of the bagpipe player. He… she… it played them at the same time every day from somewhere on the hill. Anytime I asked someone about it, they would shrug in bafflement, or toss out a few guesses, but nobody knew with any degree of certainty. I decided it was probably some sort of Missouri hill gnome, or at least an inbred midget who took up bagpipes instead of a banjo, or pan flute or whatever the hell it is an inbred midget plays.

Whatever the case, I was enjoying the music. Suddenly, my heart started racing and I felt as though I couldn’t get enough air. I broke out in a sweat and clutched my desk. Maybe I was having a heart attack. The only coherent thought I could form was that I wanted out of that room more than anything. The teacher’s voice drilled into my skull, and every little foot shuffle, cough, or yawn felt like someone stepping on a bare nerve. I spent the rest of the class doing nothing but trying to keep my cool. I was more worried about freaking out in front of everyone like a crazy pixie than I was my own health.

Almost as soon as the lecture was over and the class dismissed, the attack evaporated away. I hurried out of the classroom, sweating and shaking from the episode. I ran into a buddy, Tate, who had also burned out on school. I hadn’t seen him around much so far that semester—he’d been spending all of his time locked away in his dorm room, playing video games.

“Hey Tate, long time no see.”

“Hey man. What’s going on?”

“Oh just trying to plow through this semester in one piece.” I’d started with over 20 credits and dropped to 15 in a matter of a week. That was the bare minimum needed to keep from having to pay my student loans.

We were joined by a guy who worked in one of the administrative offices, “Hey, congratulations!”

Tate and I glanced at each other, “For what?”

“You guys didn’t know you got the highest scores in the school on the ACT-COMP? You’re getting an award at a ceremony in two weeks.”

Neither Tate nor I had spent enough time at school to know anything of the kind. What classes I hadn’t dropped, I skipped enthusiastically.

I looked at Tate and grinned, “That’s that test we’re supposed to take again when we’re seniors to see how much we’ve progressed.”

Tate nodded.

“And we already scored higher than the seniors.”

Tate nodded again.

“I guess we can drop out then.”

I knew, of all people, Tate would appreciate that perspective. I never saw him at school again.

I headed outside and made my way to the arts building where Tracy was finishing up a painting class. I considered it a complete waste of money, but never said anything to her. I had wasted a few thousand dollars on several classes that wouldn’t apply to any major of which I could conceive. I walked along the brick sidewalk, and found her standing outside.

“Hey!”

“Hey!” She called back, mocking me.

“Where are you headed now?”

“I think I’ll just go home and read,” she held up a paperback copy of Tom Robbins’ “Still Life with Woodpecker.”

“Cool. Well, I’ve decided to skip the rest of my classes today if you’d rather hang out somewhere.”

“Darren! God! You’re smart enough to know better than this. You never go to your classes.”

I shrugged in a somewhat defeatist manner, “All this shit is just so repetitive. It’s like playing a video game. It’s fun and exciting at first, but then you figure it out and… it’s boring.”

Tracy shook her head, “I’ll meet you at Winstead’s.”

* * * *

Winstead’s was a completely different place since most of the Deadheads had gone away to college. Those who stayed behind were aimless without their leader and usually trickled off to the park to spin around and dizzy themselves or play hacky sack. Now, the once overflowing restaurant was quiet and populated with a small scattering of elderly people. The walls were actually visible and the thoughts in my head could be heard easily. It almost reminded me of something out of the Twilight Zone.

Tracy and I found a booth in the smoking section. We sat across from each 0ther and simultaneously lit up our respective flavors of Marlboro cigarettes.

“So, how was the painting class today?”

Tracy sighed, “Frustrating.”

I was convinced Tracy’s teacher was a jealous old bat. She constantly criticized Tracy for the most pointless things. In reality, her paintings were gorgeous fragments of time that could be at once both rich and desolate. They made me want to take opiates.

“I don’t understand why you care, Tracy. She’s just a fucking teacher. What the hell does she know?”

“That sounds exactly like something you’d say. You drive me crazy sometimes,” she smiled, “I know you. You’re just going to quit going to school one day and that’ll be that.”

I shrugged. I couldn’t really argue that point. Dropping out of school was a way of life for me, starting with Sunday school when I was four.

“How was the one class you went to today?”

I was too embarrassed to mention my episode in class. I wasn’t sure if it was a flashback or the beginning of some sort of mental disorder, “It was… uneventful.” I couldn’t say “boring” now, it would just serve to reinforce her last comment, “I did enjoy listening to the bagpipes.”

“Who is it playing those?”

“I think it’s a Missouri hill gnome.”

“What?”

“Well, I’m surrounded by pixies, sprites, elves… might as well have gnomes around.”

“You need to get out of that apartment.”

“I know.”

I wished I had Tracy’s ability to make things happen. I realized her father had sheltered her somewhat since the death of her mother. Lately, she had gotten her own apartment with Sky, gotten a job and was dipping her toe in the academic waters. I always just drifted where the currents decided to take me, without much concern. I was almost starting to feel a bit left-behind.

“I should probably quit school before I think about moving, though,” I teased, “I don’t want to bite off more than I can chew.”

“Darren, if you quit school, you’ll have to start paying off your student loans. You barely make enough to live now. Are you going to work at that gas station forever?”

Why does she have to make so much damned sense?

This school thing was starting to seriously piss me off. I was beginning to think college was one of the larger blunders I’d made.

“Why all the concern about school and work all of the sudden?”

“I want to have a baby, Darren.”

It took a few fragments of time before the sentence was completely absorbed into my head. The nanosecond it was parsed, a chain reaction was set in motion. I imagined the Sun igniting for the first time, every cell in my brain fizzed like the fuel detonated on the Bikini Atoll, back in the ‘50s, and I inhaled my Dr. Pepper.

I chirped out a wheezing, “What?!” between coughs.

My vision blurred and my eyes filled with liquid from coughing. I could still make out Tracy’s face with enough definition to see she was serious.

“What if I inherited my mother’s heart condition?”

“Oh Tracy,” I coughed worse than Josh smoking a joint, “don’t even think that.”

Deep down in my subconscious I had buried that very notion. I never—never—let it free from the deepest parts of my mind to poison my conscious thoughts, as if giving it an audience with my awareness would make it more real.

“Tracy, that’s a very serious decision,” I cleared my throat of some remaining Dr. Pepper, “we need to think about this.”

“I know. I’m just telling you that’s why I’m concerned about your education and your job.”

I rubbed my temples with my fingers and thumb while covering my eyes with my hand. I heard Tracy scoot out of the booth and felt an ethereal wisp of air float around me. The sweet scent of her hair hit my nose at the same time as the softness on my bare arm. She put her arm around me and whispered in my ear, “I love you.”

I dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand as my heart started racing. My breathing grew seemingly ineffectual and my mind filled with a sense of untargeted urgency.

* * * *

I didn’t officially drop out of school. I just quit going, as was my style. Not very practical, but it let me keep my feeling of complete freedom. I scoffed at the letter the school sent, notifying me I was put on academic probation. I laughed at the irony of scoring in the 99th percentile, nationally, on that ridiculous, 3-hour-long test and then being on probation. I tossed the letter in the garbage as I left the post office. I felt a bit better about it by imagining Tate doing the same thing at that moment.

I told Tracy I would look for a computer job of some sort. I didn’t have high hopes I’d secure a programming position, but maybe I could convince someone to give me a job assembling hardware or working in technical support. I promised her we’d start talking about “other things” once I found a better job. I hoped that would be sometime before I gave up the ghost and ended up in a casket with an inbred midget playing “Amazing Grace” on bagpipes, or a pan flute, or whatever the hell it is inbred midgets play.