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 eat 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, cautiously 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."
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.
Posted by DevilMonkey at 9:45 PM