PREFACE: Lately I have been working on developing my "narrative voice", if you will. I previously posted the first two parts of a piece of fiction, more of which is to come in the weeks ahead. This is the first part of another project I'm currently working on. Enjoy, and leave criticism!
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Seattle: Part 1
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The Pump ‘N’ Munch. This seemed as good a place as any to gas up.
I pulled up to one of four dusty pumps. As I filled the gas tank I couldn’t help but notice: this place was old. It felt like I was watching a reel of grainy antique stock footage as the analog gauge on the pump clicked and spun. My white ’92 Chevy Lumina, basically an antique herself, seemed content to take it in. After all, she was going to need it. It was her maiden voyage, and it was a long one.
Perched next to the highway, this was strange scenery. It
was a shoebox of a gas station whose cinder block walls were covered with
chipping paint. Years ago it must have been a healthy yellow and red. Now the
whole place looked like some faded picture from the early 80’s. I half expected
my dad to step out in his bright red short shorts and tight blue Rollerina T
shirt with his blond mustache glistening in the mid-March sun. Instead, I
watched as a scrawny kid with a saggy red polo and a nametag took a hissing
draw from his cigarette. He couldn’t be bothered to see who’d just pulled up.
He just kept on leaning against that wall, the back of his shirt collecting
tiny paint chips, his eyes fixed on his cell phone. We were obviously
interrupting.
Kenny and Robert acknowledged Mr. Pump ‘N’ Munch and pushed
through the front door, triggering the electronic bell tone. I stood there behind
my car while the tank filled, doing some calculations in my head.
Duluth to Brainerd is
two and a half hours. Brainerd to Wadena is an hour. So Duluth to Wadena, that’s
three and a half hours.
The attendant dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk without
putting it out. He slowly blew the last draw out of his nostrils, all the while
keeping his eyes on his phone. He turned and walked back inside.
Let’s see, Wadena to
Moorhead: that’s an hour and a half. So that’s five hours across Minnesota.
Seems about right. Then there’s North Dakota. Ugh…
Robert came back out to the car as I dropped the nozzle back
on the pump. He was peeling the plastic wrap off of a pack of gum and had a 20
oz. Cherry Coke under his arm. “Kenny’s in the john,” he said as he popped a
piece of gum out of its plastic casing. “I don’t know, man. I wouldn’t trust
the bathrooms here. Yeesh.” He ducked into the front seat.
Ok, so North Dakota. That’s
about five and a half hours. Five and a half grueling hours.
Opening the car door I could smell wintergreen. “Driver’s
fee, gimme a piece.” I held my hand out to Robert, palm up.
Then Montana’s another
five. So that puts us at fifteen and a half hours. At least it’s got landscape,
a little something to look at.
Eventually Kenny came out the front door, skipping like a child
in large, uncoordinated bounds, his bright, shoulder-length blond hair waving
behind him like a Norwegian cape. One arm swung wide carrying a full gallon-jug
of water, the other curled up at his side holding an apple, two bananas, and a
huge box of raisins. He heaped the loot on top of two of our backpacks in the
back seat. The packs looked like they were about ready to burst open and spill
socks and undies everywhere.
Then there’s a little
bit of Idaho, right? I think? For, like, an hour? Then on to Washington, in just
under seventeen hours.
“Kenny, did you wash your hands?”
He had already taken a big old horse-bite out of his gas
station apple. “Shuggump. Letshko.” I turned the key as Kenny wiped the apple
guts off his chin and gulped his bite down hard. “Oh dude, here, let’s listen
to this! Just a sec!” He reached for his bag underneath the mound of packed
belongings and tried digging out a CD. “Oh my gosh, you guys will love this
band.”
“Let’s save it for later, it’s a long drive. I want to listen
to MPR while it still comes in.”
Then Washington makes
for seven more hours and we’re there. That’s a square twenty four hours A full
day. In the car. With these jokers.
I was equal parts excited and preemptively exhausted.
“Seriously, you guys, I can’t believe we’ve already stopped. We’re not even out
of Duluth yet.” I looked down the hill to where Lake Superior met the St. Louis
River.
Ok, Duluth to
Brainerd. That’s two and a half hours.
We didn’t know it yet, of course, but we wouldn’t reach
Seattle in twenty-four hours. Not even close.
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