Page 2 of Drown Like Heaven
A few minutes later, the bus rolled to a stop and I hopped off, then started the walk towards the gas station. It was only a few blocks, but when the weather was bad, those few blocks could be miserable. Wasn’t much different than the couple blocks I had to walk from the bus stop closest to my single-wide, though.
The gas station was small, with just a few pumps in the pothole-ridden lot. Old white siding covered the outside of the building, grime accumulating into stains that trickled down from the roof over time. There was a freezer to the side of the door that held packed bags of ice, and a trashcan with an ashtray built into the top. The windows were plastered with signage advertising cigarettes and beer and cherry-flavored slushy drinks.
I pulled the glass door open, the electronic chime sounding above me, loud and wonky and old. I hated that sound.
Instantly, I was greeted by the smell of cheap vinyl and burnt coffee, the soft humming of the fridges that lined the walls, and the yellow lights showing off chipped linoleum and spinning keychain stands.
After punching in, I slung my bag off my shoulder, setting it on a plastic crate as I plopped myself on the stool behind the counter. Eric poked his head out from the back office and I turned, narrowing my eyes.
“Oh, nice to see you, too, Dakota,” he scoffed, laughing and stepping to the counter with me, the door to the office ajar behind him. He shoved his hands in the front pockets of his worn jeans. “You’re early today.”
“I know. Do you want me to clock out early? I’m sorry I didn’t check with you before.”
“Of course not. I need the coverage whenever I can get it, butterfly. Come down here whenever you’d like—I’ll make sure to kick you out if I can’t pay you.”
“I really am grateful for your flexibility,” I said genuinely.
“It’s nothin.’ I was also gonna ask if you could make another pot.” Eric jerked his chin towards the coffee maker, a little more graying stubble than usual scruffing up his jaw. “I’m trying to—I don’t know. Fix up some records and shit that aren’t really adding up from last month.”
I blew air out of my mouth, lifting a few strands of hair off my face. Eric scrubbed a hand over his head.
“I mean—”
“I’ll do it,” I said and forced a little laugh. “Just not having a super lucky day.”
“Ah. I’ll make sure not to tempt you with the lotto tickets, then. Early and unlucky.”
“I appreciate that.” I’d never bought a lottery ticket in my life, though Eric did like to mention what the jackpot had gotten up to when it was really high. He slipped back through the door and I hopped up to start another pot of coffee. Tapping my nails on the counter, I glanced up at the clock—pointlessly. I wasn’t anywhere near the end of my shift; I’d just gotten here. But it was a habit.
I swiped a disinfectant wipe over the laminate countertop, catching stray bits of powdery cinnamon and sticky drops of cheap creamer, then restocked the little coffee station. Stirring sticks, plastic lids, generic foam cups, shitty cardboard sleeves that didn’t do a whole lot to insulate the cup.
After straightening up the coffee area, I grabbed a push broom from the storage closet and walked up and down the aisles, collecting any small bits of trash and mentally takinginventory of what might need restocking on the shelves. Sour candy, small bags of chips, beef jerky.
I situated myself back on my stool at the register and watched a small black cat dart along the curb of the lot, slipping past the free tire air pump towards the back of the station. She was a familiar little face, and I usually found her waiting outside the back door when I took my breaks, expecting some head scratches from me.
The bell above the door chimed as a customer walked in. A man was heading straight towards the counter, dark grease stains smudged on his coveralls. I glanced over at him while he approached, mindlessly toying with one of the keychains on the stand—a plastic cutout of the state of Washington with an orca on it.
“Twenty on pump two,” he said and slapped a crumpled up twenty-dollar bill on the counter as I faced him.
“Got it. That all?”
He ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw, his eyes roaming over the wall of cigarettes and lottery tickets behind me.
“Uhh, and a pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights. That’ll be it.” He fished out another bill and handed it to me. “Trying to quit.” He made an awkward, self-deprecating face. “Not quite there yet.”
I nodded. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I get it.”
I stood to get the cigarettes before punching buttons on the cash register and plucking out the man’s change. The drawer shut with a loudclank. He gave me a short smile, then turned and left the station, wind from outside whooshing through the door as he opened it.
Absently, I watched him go back to the pump and start filling up his car. I never understood why people thought they had to explain their purchases to me. He wouldn’t be the only person to buy cigarettes today, and also not the only one telling me they were trying to quit.
A couple hours passed before Eric poked his head out of the office again, asking me if I wanted to go on a break. I accepted his offer and grabbed myself a huge plastic cup, filling it to the brim with cherry slush and poking a straw through the lid before slipping out the back door. My fingers flexed on the plastic, my palms pressing into the lines of orange and red ringing the cup.
Outside, it only took a minute before my favorite little face showed up.
I squatted down and held my hand out, the black cat—who was apparently named Bug—instantly pushing her head against my touch. My fingers curled, my nails scratching through her short dark fur.
“Hi, Bug,” I said softly. “How are you today?”
