Storm Ainsely
Five Minutes to Close
Drawer counted down, drops made, cooler full, coffee dumped and ready to be made, not so many hours from now. This last guy enters on foot. No headlights have been by in awhile. My gas station is small, nearly silent, almost too bright. It’s startlingly cold, for such an early fall night, close to freezing. This guy is military, uniformed in camouflage. He blows on his hands, rocks back and forth, but doesn’t move away from the door.
“If I’m making you uncomfortable, I’ll leave.”
“I’m fine, are you okay?”
His hands are bloody.
“I’ll leave if I’m making you uncomfortable.”
“No, no, I’m fine. Are you okay?”
I try to read his name off his uniform, but it’s ripped right there, cloth folded down.
“Where’s the highway?”
“Just a half block that way,” I point over my shoulder behind me.
“I’m trying to get to this place, it’s supposed to be by the highway, and Midland Street, and 13th Street…”
He’s still just inside the door. Hasn’t come any closer, or ceased his frenetic twitching, stomping boots in place.
“Uh, well, the highway’s just a block that way, like I said, but Midland Street is two blocks the other direction, and the streets aren’t numbered on this side of the river.”
“Which way’s the river?”
“That way,” I point across the street, a third
new direction.
“I’m making you uncomfortable. I’ll leave.”
He spins on heel and exits before I can speak. I watch his retreating form cross my parking lot, more toward the highway than anything else.
What time is it Miss Fox?
I answer aloud.
“Midnight!”
With a twist and click, I lock the door.
Storm Ainsely has lived in nine of the United States. She loves driving and strongly wishes for solar-paneled and wind-turbine-lined highways. She names any vehicle she drives more than twice, and though some years have gone by, she still can't stop talking (or dreaming) about the gas station where she worked.