Issue 02
Untitled (We pass a sequence of gas stations ...) Margaret Connor We pass a sequence of gas stations rising out of the dry, red earth, each more phantasmic than the last, signs in the windows announcing Ice 10¢ and Mustang Blaze Cigarettes 50¢. The air cries out for a thunderstorm. Somewhere in the distance, the warped, tortured shapes of the local flora cross the horizon into the sunset. Beside me, Isaac lies limp in his seat, head slumped sideways onto his shoulder. His lips are parted. I can see the white scar trickling down the inside of his bottom lip. I stop the pickup at a PetrolExpress. We’re the only car there, save the bluish green truck I assume belongs to the redfaced man seated in an old lawn chair at the attendant’s station. “We’re not too late, are we?” He shakes his head emphatically. “The shop’s closed, pumps are still open.” The red faced man looks over his shoulder. Someone’s emerging from the cinderblock building designated as the women’s toilet stall. She’s about his age, half his size across, walking gingerly across the gravel in her lambskin boots. The woman, brushing her straw blonde hair over her shoulder, smiles pleasantly at us. “You two need a fill-up, sugar?” she drawls. The man nods to her as well as he can. His neck is subsumed under a double chin and a broad, barrel-like chest. “If you please, dear.” The three of us get to talking while she fills the gas tank. “There’s Beauregard Hotel, down in Batersville, but it’s a mighty fancy establishment. Most of the gentlemen there are bankers or lawyers or some-such on business trips,” the man tells me, arms crossed in thought. 66
