Seattle: Part 1

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.