An Empty Place

Kalen Schack

Brilliant white fluorescent lights reflect off the speckled laminate floor. Recently mopped aisles shimmer under the flickering beams above. The mesmerizing sign, hung crookedly from the window, flashes: “OPEN” on and off in red and blue neon, radiating into the abyssal night. The harrowingly welcoming message emits a low crackling buzz then falls silent. The air was pregnant with the potent scent of gasoline, lingering around the tall, plastic pump terminals, with their rigid tubing and grimy handles. The keypad’s plastic coverings are worn through from decades of motorist fingers and scathing sun.

On this night, the rocks are still warm from the day’s light. The clock reads “1:16.” A lit cigarette wastes itself away in a crack on the sidewalk below a dusty payphone, its dangling handset vocalizing a hollow tone. In the card reader, a peeling credit card ending in 1182 protrudes from a slot. The message on the screen reads; “Please remove card” and the device honks its tiny speaker in agreement. Behind the counter, the mosaic of cigarettes looms and dominates the room. Shining, crumpled packages of snacks want nothing more than to be adopted into a sweaty truck driver’s mouth. This deserted place provides comfort in its lack of judgement and its ghostly tranquility. The frantically spiraling moths with their dusty wings makes a street light flicker. the beam glowing into the dust of the arid night—a traveler’s respite from the black road.

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