The tongue laps the petrol off the ground. It belongs to a sick dog with fleas and flies battling beneath its matted fur. It runs off into the desert past the gas station and promptly passes out and maybe dies, but we don’t want to know that so I’m not saying anything. Tires roll up to a pump and some boots arrive at the counter where the man sits on the stool and counts the money. He asks the pretty blonde dudes in the boots and leather jackets whether they wanted a pack of cigs or not. He tells them that’s all they sell here: gas and ciggies. They each bought several packs and went back outside to smoke and pull the throttle on the pump and smell the gasoline as it penetrates a rusting tank. The vehicle is an old matte black pickup of indistinct branding with a dead deer in the back under a blue tarp and wrapped in baling twine. Just past them is a billboard advertising a strip club in Vegas that was so far away you wonder whether it was worth it to advertise here of all places. They stand at the pump for hours. There’s a tink and the pump’s numbers stop at 34.42. They decided they’d already bought all these cigs, why should they pay for anything else? Tires slide underneath sand black in the night. The two pretty blonde guys sang a song from high school with the windows rolled down, and swore they’d find better luck beyond the border.
The next day, they got stopped by a cop in the middle of nowhere. He siphoned their gas citing it as evidence, threw up, and drove past them into the most orange sunrise you’ve ever seen in your life. The two stood there without gas and thought to themselves, well, we’ve got these cigarettes.
Back at the gas station the clerk sleeps on a magazine with naked women in it, some of them looking absolutely miserable.
Oh, the dog is alive, by the way.
Alec Ivan lives and writes in Indiana. He’s published PHOTOGRAPHS OF MADNESS (Back Patio Press, 2019) and THE TENDER ATROCITIES (Sweat-Drenched Press, 2020). You can find his other writings buried in your backyard or on the internet depending on how hard you’re willing to work for it.
Back Patio Press 