Pay for the Gas

I head for the station office while the last waves of heat shimmer across the highway behind me. The desert sun presses against my shoulders hard enough to feel physical. Dust crunches beneath my boots with every step. The bell above the door jingles softly when I walk inside.

Cool air does not greet me. The station is barely any colder than outside. A pair of ancient ceiling fans spin lazily overhead, pushing around the smell of gasoline, old coffee, cigarettes, and sun-baked wood. The place looks frozen somewhere around 1977 and left there to rot slowly.

Metal shelves line the walls beneath faded advertisements for motor oil and cola brands that barely exist anymore. A dusty rack of postcards leans near the window beside road maps curled from years of heat. Somewhere deeper in the building a radio plays old country music through bursts of static.

The man behind the register glances up briefly when I approach. He looks leathery enough to have been grown from the desert itself. Sunburned skin. Gray beard. Oil-stained hands. He wears a sweat-darkened work shirt with the sleeves torn off and keeps a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth despite the NO SMOKING sign directly behind him.

His eyes linger on me a second longer than polite. Most people’s do, to be fair. I set a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “Pump three,” I say. He nods once and reaches for the register without speaking. The old machine groans loudly when he punches the buttons. I glance toward the windows while he works.

The hills are visible from here. They rise beyond the highway like broken teeth beneath the white sky. “You heading west?” he asks finally.

“Eventually,” I say.

He tears the receipt free with a dry ripping sound. “You staying on Highway 127?”

“I hadn't given it much thought.”

He grunts softly through his cigarette. “Road construction about twenty miles up,” he says. “State’s got traffic backed up half the day.”

I study him carefully over my sunglasses. “Is there an alternative route?”

“There’s an old mining road cuts north through the hills.” He gestures vaguely out the window. “Shaves near an hour off if you know where you’re going.” Something in his tone makes the hairs along my arms rise slightly.

I lean one elbow against the counter casually. “And if I don’t know where I’m going?”

A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth. “Then I suppose you’ll find out.”

The radio crackles loudly for a second behind him before settling back into static-covered music. I look out toward the distant hills again. The road he mentioned is barely visible from here, little more than a pale scar winding upward between the sandstone ridges.

Every bad decision in America starts with a shortcut. Still, I fold the receipt and slip it into my pocket. “Appreciate it,” I say. The old man nods once more and looks back down at his newspaper, dismissing me completely. But as I turn toward the door, I can still feel his eyes following me.