It was two o'clock Wednesday morning when my feelings for Tracy betrayed me. I had a math class in six hours but, I didn't hesitate to get out of bed and answer the phone once the ringing awoke me. The only person I could imagine calling at that hour was Tracy and there might be something wrong.

"Hello?"

"Hey man!"

Oh Jesus Christ. It was Wayland, the King Pixie. Wayland was tall and thin and wore a purple-dyed mohawk. When he was a child, he got into a cabinet in the kitchen and ate some soap. The chemicals did severe damage to his stomach and he got some sort of settlement from the soap company. Since he had turned eighteen recently, he finally had access to the money. With that, he set himself up in a bare apartment and bought large quantities of pixie dust. He supplied all the pixies I knew.

Even with his vast riches, Wayland still chose to work at the hospital as a janitor. He worked nights and shamelessly stole all manner of objects from the premises, including a wheelchair, a laser pointer, a stethoscope and a hand-held tape recorder. He usually gave these items away and the aforementioned adorned our apartment. They proved useful in keeping the pixies occupied when they'd been up for a week straight and couldn't think of anything more to do.

"Dude, it's two a.m. What the fuck do you want?"

"I need to talk to Dustin!" His voice was wild and trembling. He sounded terrified.

I shook my head. What an idiot. I imagined him on the other end of the line, sweating and his eyes, which looked buggy anyway due to his thick glasses, wide and confused. I always thought of him wearing dirty coveralls and green rubber fishing boots while cooking meth in a musty basement.

"Dustin's asleep, dude."

"It's an emergency!"

I chuckled and went into Dustin's room. He seemed to be sleeping fitfully. He was tossing about in sweat-soaked sheets. His body spasmed periodically and he kept mumbling, "Kalyptis."

"Hey, Dustin! Dustin!" I walked over and shook him awake.

"What?!"

"Wayland's on the phone, man. He says it's an emergency."

"Fucking pixie!"

Dustin threw the wet covers off the bed and answered the phone angrily, "What?"

"Hey man, I'll kick you down if you give me a ride!"

Even with all that money, Wayland didn't bother to buy a car. I'm sure Dustin didn't mind the arrangement. He could always use another helping of pixie dust.

"Where do you want to go?" Dustin asked, still groggy.

"Your place!"

Within an hour, there were pixies all over the apartment jabbering incomprehensibly to each other. I closed the door, leaving my poor cat in the outer apartment with them. It was hopeless; even with the door shut I could hear them chattering and breaking stuff. I tossed and turned for a few hours and decided I wasn't going to bother with classes. I shut the alarm off and fell asleep sometime around six a.m.

The next thing I knew Dustin was waking me up for work. I wasn't in the best mood and I quickly tied my hair back, threw on some jeans and a t-shirt and headed out with him to the Family Truckster. It was covered with graffiti, painted with tan latex house paint. Along one side were the words, "Sausage Republic." The other side read, "Squirt Gun Farmers Unite!" On the back was painted "Kalyptis." He loved that rat.

"Dude, what the fuck happened?"

"Darren, I'm a mess! I drove all the way to Platte City on the wrong side of the highway last night!"

"You mean you drove to Platte City in the south-bound lane?"

"Yeah!"

"Man, you're lucky you didn't get arrested or killed."

"Oh my God!" He spoke as though he had just had a sudden realization from God, "I'm so fucked up, Darren!"

"Yeah."

I jumped in the Truckster with Dustin. He took it out of gear and released the parking brake. Slowly, the van started to roll forward.

"What are you doing?"

"Something happened to the starter last night."

"Great."

Eventually, we had enough momentum and Dustin took his foot off of the clutch. The Family Truckster lurched into operation with a strong jerk and cloud of exhaust and we headed down the road.

There were at least five crossroads we could have taken to get to the station. Dustin chose the one that passed through the Texaco lot. He turned the van around and headed away from the building, out toward their pumps. When he reached the end of the lot, he turned around and revved the engine.

I was becoming a bit nervous, "Dude, what are you doing? Do you know?"

Dustin's eyes were wild and sparking, "I'm going to get that fat-ass, Darren!"

I grabbed the seat with both hands and squeezed tightly, as though my very life were at stake. It probably was.

Dustin took his foot off the clutch and sped toward the open door of the Texaco building. I could see Fat-Time sitting in a chair inside. He was watching us with a look of complete shock. He appeared frozen, unable to react to something so completely unexpected.

Dustin pushed on the horn and it pierced the air in a continuous wail. His window was rolled down and he stuck his head into the wind yelling at the top of his lungs, "Fuck you Fat-Time! You fat son-of-a-bitch!"

He stuck his tongue out and made a growling sound.

Fat-Time remained frozen, watching as we got within a few feet of the door. I looked away, certain that Dustin was going to drive us straight into the building. I felt the inertia as he stomped on the brakes. He took his hand off of the horn long enough to put the Truckster in reverse, backing up and turning so we were facing away from the building. I turned and looked back, out the side window, and saw Fat-Time still staring at us, his mouth hanging limply open. I broke out in laughter.

Dustin hit the gas again, weaving around the two islands of pumps. He drove back to the back of the lot and turned around, heading for the building again. Once again he slammed on the horn and yelled obscenities out the window at Fat-Time. This time, I kept my eyes open, watching and laughing in delight.

A few other Texaco workers joined Fat-Time. They all stood and sat at the back of the office watching us with confusion and horror through their opened door. Dustin hit the brakes again, just in time to not slam into the building. He backed up quickly and then drove forward several times, honking and yelling.

My sides were hurting from laughing and tears were rolling down my face as we pulled out of the Texaco lot and headed to our beloved Phillips across the street.

Fat-Time never came to Phillips after that.

We parked the Family Truckster and headed inside to begin our shift. Toad was deadly silent and Aaron was smiling slyly. I was still chuckling a bit and Dustin was... confused.

"What's up?" I asked, somewhat cheerfully. The adventure had put me in a better mood.

"Hey," Aaron chuckled.

Toad remained silent a few moments, then headed outside to read the pumps.

"Toad have too much vodka today?" I asked Aaron.

"He always has too much vodka."

I couldn't argue with that, "Yeah."

Toad came back inside. I think reading the pumps gave him some sense of clarity. He took a deep, audible breath, "Yep."

I looked at Dustin. We both knew what was coming next.

"Fuckin' employees. Fuckin' with other gas pumpers."

I had no control over my laughter. Dustin, having maybe had an hour of sleep in the past four days wasn't quite as laid back about it, "Oh Jesus. Wha-a-a! Wha-a-a! Poop. Poop. Poop. Poop-poop. Poop."

That made me laugh even harder and not even Toad had a response for such a bizarre reaction.

Once we cleared the station of the day shift, Dustin and I flipped on the television and settled in to watch our favorite series, Thunder in Paradise. We laughed and supplied our own dialog in between cars until the show was over and the Deadheads started collecting in the gravel parking lot to play hacky sack.

I watched with disgust as the motley collection of teenagers mindlessly kicked the bean bag around and around, "What a cluster-fuck."

Dustin had the portable tape recorder with him and pressed the record button, "Darren, what is your reaction to the cluster-fuck playing with each other in the parking lot?"

"Turn that fucking thing off, you damn nut."

"Darren declined to comment on the cluster-fuck."

Dustin turned and noticed a car pulling in on the near island, "We'll return after these important customers."

He pushed the stop button on the recorder and headed outside. I watched as he approached the window of the customer, then I grabbed the recorder. I opened it so I could remove the tape and throw it away. There was none in it.

I walked outside rubbing my forehead. The decay of sanity around me was giving me a headache. Was this some sort of punishment for my own extensive drug career? As if detoxing wasn't enough. I grabbed the squeegee from Dustin's bucket and cleaned the windshield for him. The customer was a teacher at the high school. At least that's what Toad had told me. He often chatted with the customers, in what I can only guess was some warped attempt at making them feel welcome.

The customer turned, noticing Trent and the other Deadheads playing in the gravel. He rolled down his window, "Hey, Trent!"

Trent smiled and waved amicably. I wanted to drop a cinder block on his head.

"Come here!"

Trent walked over to the passenger-side window and stuck his bushy head in the car.

"Hey, I wanted to ask if you'd mind if I presented you with your diploma this graduation?"

Trent shrugged and grinned, "Sure, why not?"

"I think that would be beautiful. One generation of the Dead to the next."

I cringed, my spine chilled. I closed my eyes tightly, hoping that when I opened them I would find myself in bed realizing it was all just a bad dream. Dustin snorted, making no attempt at discretion, "Jesus fucking Christ." I had to go back inside before I vomited.

Trent, in his vapid bliss, was too clueless to realize he probably shouldn't follow me, "Hey, Darren."

My back crawled at that bright, shiny voice, "Hey, Trent." My tone was somewhat more emotionless than his.

"I was wondering if you could pick up some booze for us tonight?"

"Having a love-in out in the cornfield, eh?"

Trent looked at me, somewhat hurt, "I guess."

"Yeah, I'll pick you up some. What do you want?"

The ingenuity that people demonstrated when wanting to get intoxicated never ceased to amaze me. The Deadheads had scouted out some remote location off of some old road I hadn't even known existed. There was a sharp bend, with an old dirt road leading off in the opposite direction - directly into a corn field. There was a clearing where the Dead-Heads collected and did whatever it was they did.

Tracy had always wanted a Jeep and she finally had one. Her dad bought it for her, since she was nearing graduation. It was green and had a black cab with plastic windows that could be peeled back like a sunroof. She drove me to the clearing with two paper bags filled with various bottles of hard liquor. She and I mostly kept to ourselves while the Deadheads broke open the bottles and, I assumed, celebrated the joys of life - or something equally inane.

We were there nearly an hour in the dark, when I saw a pair of headlights heading toward us. The Deadheads were well on their way to intoxicated hacky sack bliss and didn't notice the car. I knew immediately what it was, even before the bright spotlight beamed on to blind me.

My heart sank and my stomach knotted.

Great. Here I am with a bunch of fucking kids getting drunk and I'm the only one here old enough to buy alcohol.

A couple of Deadheads realized what was happening, once the cop got out of the car, and threw their bottles into the corn field. Every muscle in my body tightened and I slowly began the process of unwrapping the fingers of reality clenched around my mind. Dissociation was the only way to survive the monster ass-raping I was about to get. Tracy grabbed my sweating hand and squeezed tightly. I was proud of her, she maintained her composure much better than her friends.

The cop walked over to the crowd, shining his flashlight from one naïve, terrified face to the next.

"What are you kids doing out here this time of night?"

The Deadheads looked around at each other. Finally, Trent answered, "We're just hanging out."

The cop walked over and picked up a dropped bottle of wine, "Hanging out and drinking. Where'd you get this?"

Some of the Deadheads glanced over at me. I refused to acknowledge their gaze. I bit my lip, praying that the terrified little bastards wouldn't rat me out.

Just keep your mouths shut and he'll let us all go. Don't let him psyche you out. The first one of these kids that rats on me is going to end up at the bottom of that filthy, polluted Missouri river.

The Deadheads remained silent. The cop prodded further, "Which one of you is old enough to buy alcohol?"

The Deadheads glanced at me again as the cop shone his light around the group. He seemed to be ignoring Tracy and me. Finally, he settled the light on one of the Deadheads, "You. Let me see your license."

The Deadhead, trembling, reached into his back pocket and removed his license from his wallet. The cop looked it over and handed it back.

"Alright. I want you kids to clean up this mess and get out of here. Go home."

Tracy and I helped the Deadheads pick up their bottles and discarded paper bags before getting in the Jeep and heading out. I took a deep breath, "Jesus. I would have been so fucked if that guy had decided to mess with me."

"I'm sorry," Tracy was shaking.

I kissed her on the cheek and stroked her leg, "It's not your fault."

"I don't want to go back to the pixies," Tracy said, "Let's go somewhere and watch the storm," She pointed ahead at the lightning on the horizon, which was followed moments later by a gentle rumbling.

"Let's go to Riverfront Park," I suggested. It was across the road from the college, next to the river.

Tracy nodded and we went to the park, finding a good bench to sit on, overlooking the river to the west and the coming storm. The lightning had a red tint to it and was diffuse behind the thick black clouds. It lit up the night and reflected off the river and Tracy's black hair.

"So, how do you like your Jeep?"

"I love it!"

I smiled. Her enthusiasm was intoxicating.

"My dad said he's going to give you my Probe, if you want it."

That was unexpected, "Really?"

Tracy nodded, smiling, "He likes you."

"That's cool. I like your dad too. He's laid back. Anything I had as a dad was an asshole."

"I know. Sometimes I think that's some of the reason why we fit. I have no mom, you have no dad."

"Yeah," I hadn't thought of it that way. I realized at that moment, I had never met anyone so insightful. And we did fit. It was almost as though something in Nature was trying to balance itself out. No mother, no father. Female, male. Trusting and kind, cynical and sarcastic. We even had the same birthday, a few years apart.

"I told my dad something tonight. I want to tell you, but it's kind of hard for me."

My nerves twanged, as if they had been strummed by Jimi Hendrix, what could possibly be so hard to tell me? Was she pregnant? Did I give her a disease - I didn't think I had any to give? No. She was dumping me. I never understood how a girl that impossibly beautiful, who could have virtually anyone she wanted, would hang out with me. Now, she was going to hit me in the face with a brick. I could feel the tentacles of despair reaching out from somewhere in the ocean of night, feeling for my legs to grip onto, ready to pull me in to drown.

Tracy looked down and closed her eyes tightly.

My heart sank. Here it comes.

"I..."

A wave of adrenaline washed through my gut at the sound of her voice.

"I love you."

The shock of that sentence was fleeting. It quickly melted away like heated butter and the phrase stuck inside my head like honey. I felt like an astronaut who had just escaped the immense pull of the Earth's gravity. It seemed I had been waiting a lifetime to hear those words from this one single person.

I held Tracy tightly and buried my face in her sweet, dark hair. This feeling couldn't come from any plant I had ever smoked, swallowed or injected. No person could synthesize this molecule. It was too pure, too real.

"I love you, too."

Posted by DevilMonkey at 4:44 PM

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