Interstate 70

Phoenix Pham

Most people assume I lost my arm during the war. Most people assume a lot of things, and most people are dead wrong. It was aliens who took my arm. It was Aliens eleven July’s ago at strange gas station here in Utah. You see, I was driving down Interstate 70. Interstate 70, you’ve been down it. It’s a straight stretch of road, sixty miles long, flatter than a sheet of paper. All you can do on a road like that is drive and drive fast. During the day it treats you to the special view of the infinite, barren, color-of-low-fat-margarine desert, and in the night its so dark all you can see is the road rolling out before you. No street lamps and no towns to break the darkness— only the stars. The stars! Like somebody set off all the Fourth of July fireworks in Texas and then just froze them there. It’s wonderful. Unless there’s clouds. If there’s clouds then it’s just dark. One thing you gotta know about interstate 70 is that the signs lie. The posted speed limit says 85, but rare is the person who goes below 100. The signs warning you that there’s no food, gas, or rest stops available for those 60 miles also lie—though not as frequently. The only time I have witnessed their mendacity was that faithful July night when I was 30 miles down Interstate 70 and, like a neon sunrise, Dave’s Cosmic Gas Station appeared.

I had been driving out of Moab to visit my ex girlfriend, Denice. She worked at a daycare up in Denver, and I was working my first summer for Capstone Raft Tours. I’d visit her every weekend. We were in love. Usually I would drive out Saturdays but I had nothing to do that Friday night, and I liked the cool air. The heat that summer had been inescapable. It was like God was a sweaty-ass aunty who just couldn’t stop hugging you. It was worse than Iraq, I swear. It was so hot that if you moved too quickly you’d collapse of heatstroke. It happened to me once. Luckily I remembered my training and killed a nearby rattlesnake for its blood— but that’s a story for another time. Anyways, driving down interstate 70 at night, it was cool enough that I could roll my windows down and forget that God was my sweaty-ass aunty. I had been driving long enough that boredom had started pushing the needle of my trusty Buick into the 110s when I saw that great neon sunrise. I pulled over. Who wouldn’t?

I considered that the gas station had always been there and I had just missed it. Ever since my tour ended, I had been known to get drifty and miss details like that. It was also possible that the station had only recently opened. But when I got closer it was clear that the latter was unlikely.

The gas station was a big, sprawling thing, styled in the way of the ‘60s, though judging from the slapdash paint job and cinder-block construction, I suspected that it was probably just ‘90s imitation. The tin roof covering the gas pumps was painted neon green and the size of a football field. A sign saying “Dave’s Cosmic Station” in ultraviolet cursive letters hung from its side. Behind it was a building that looked as though it had been three separate structures at one point before being duct-taped together and spray-painted black. A mishmash of green and purple neon signs crowded the windows, saying “Open 4 business!” “Worlds-famous Beef Jerky,” and “ALIENS ARE REAL.”

The rest of the place was a nerd’s graveyard. There was a Delorian sitting up on bricks, a nearly-finished Millennium Falcon poking out from behind the building, and a model army of Starship Troopers soldiers surrounding the parking lot. Some of them were breathing.

Up until that point, I was in a sort of imaginative— Denice called it gullible— state. I’ve always been that way, but it really comes out at night. So I didn’t think anything strange about this gas station— until I pulled in next to the pump. You see, there was no price for gas. I’ve been fooled once before into buying gas without a price, and I was charged $216 dollars. Fucking rural Virginia. Couldn’t do nothing about it though. I just got so wrathful and I swore, up and down my soul, that it would never happen again. So, upon seeing that there was no price for gas, and thinking that this place was taking advantage of poor, tired, imaginative customers such as myself, I decided to enter the station and give the attendants a piece of my mind.

Up close, it was clear the station had seen better days. Dust clouded the windows, and the air was thick with bats. The door was so rusted that I when I yanked it open, its hinges screamed as though they were being tortured.

“Hello,” I said, even though the place looked abandoned. That’s how my house had looked when I walked in on my parents. Never again. Anyways, everything was coated in dust. The register was empty. The only lights were the neon signs, casting a green and purple glow over the rows of chips and candy bars. Only reason I didn’t leave was because the chip bags weren’t any brand I recognized. In fact, their labels weren’t in English, but in script that looked like bird tracks. I stepped inside. The door stayed open, frozen by the rust. Behind me the warm night air blew in.

“Can I get you something?” A voice said. What it really said was “CAHAHGEOOSUMFN?”, in a voice deeper than the Mariana Trench and as creaky as the door hinges. I whirled around to see a tall, skinny old man standing behind the register, wearing a tight neon green shirt that said “I am Dave” in red cursive across the right breast pocket. There were two things that stuck out to me about this man. One was that he had excellent posture. I’m talking ramrod straight, like a mannequin with a stick up its butt. In fact, it was so good it was a little eerie. He didn’t shuffle, shift his weight, or do the dozens of small motions that normal people do even when standing still. It was like he was made of butter. Then there was his hair. He had enough for two heads. It was long, thick, and white, sticking out in tufts at all angles and obscuring all his face but his lips, which were cherry-red and juicy.

“How much does a gallon cost around here, oldie?” I asked. He looked at me for two minutes. Just as I was about to run out, he said,

“Have you tried our jerky?”

“No,” I said. “I have not had that pleasure.” The beer jerky here was probably from 1996. But then something strange happened: I had a sudden urge for beef jerky. The desire was so strong that I found myself saying— against my better judgement— that I would very much like to try Dave’s “Worlds-Famous” jerky. The old man pointed to the corner of the shop where there was one of those rotating metal racks that usually holds cheap sunglasses. This one had cheap sunglasses, but interspersed at random were also beef jerky packets.

“We make it in house.” He said as I walked over to the rack. I had to wipe away the dust to read the package’s titles. “Dave’s Italian Beef Jerky. Tastes like spaghetti. Dave’s Jamaican Beef Jerky: Buffalo Soldier. Mary’s Minnesotan Beef Jerky: You Betcha!” After much debate, I selected the last one, clutching it to my chest so that I wouldn’t rip it open right then I was so hungry. When I turned back to the register I screamed. The old man was right behind me. I mean right behind me— his nose was brushing mine. It was bristling with white hair. His mouth was open and I could see three, pearly white teeth: two on top, one on the bottom left. His breath smelled of rotting beans.

“Back off friend. You’re one wrong move from me jerking this jerky up your puckered ass.” I said. The old man glided back, muttering something in a foreign language (probably German). I pocketed the beef jerky and took the long way back to the register because I needed some alone time after that interaction. As I was passing the refrigerators, I noticed that they were stocked with most definitely not-American products. But these had labels I could read. They said things like “Middle-aged Ankles,” “Tongue of Kyle.” That was the final straw.

“I’m going to leave twenty dollars right here.” I said suddenly, waving a ten-dollar bill and placing it under a nearby bag of chips. “This isn’t tipping, mind you, this is overpaying. But I’m going to let you keep the change. And while you’re collecting it I’m going leave, nice and easy. Do you understand?” Another breeze pushed through the open door again, rustling the chip bags.

“The price is 20.01” Another voice said behind me. I whirled around and at first I thought the old geezer had duplicated himself, because the man in front of me looked exactly like him— same shirt and hair and everything. As though he were reading my mind, he grinned and tapped the stitching above his right breast pocket: “My name is Also Dave”. His breath also smelled of beans.

“Do you got Venmo?” I said, eyeing the open door. I could see my Buick still parked at the pump.

“Bitcoin. Only.”

“How about one of those ‘take a penny leave a penny’ things?” Dave at the register lifted the penny tray and dumped the change into his hand. He then pocketed it and grinned at me.

“C’mon, Dave,” I said. “That was just rude.” Thinking fast, I grabbed a bag of chips, threw it at Also Dave, and ran for it. I had just made it to the threshold when the door— which, if you remember, had been frozen open with rust— slammed shut, knocking me to my feet. I scrambled up but then the geezers were on me. Also Dave grabbed me from behind and pinned my arms behind my back. His grip was stronger than good bourbon. Dave came at me with a needle and syringe the size of my forearm. I kicked at him and screamed but he knocked my legs aside and stuck me in the neck. The last thing I remembered before the blackness took me was the neon signs flickering and the station shaking. For a moment I let myself believe that this had all been a bad trip, that I was on drugs in Denver with Denice. Then I was out.

It was light outside when I came to. But it wasn’t the light of a Utah—clear and honest. This light was bloody. For a moment I struggled to put my finger on what exactly was off about the light, but then a packet of Dave’s Jamaican Beef Jerky floated past me and I realized two things at once: I was in the station’s refrigerator, and the station was in outer space. Through the floating contents of the store, I could make out a giant glowing red eye outside the windows. No, not an eye, a storm. Jupiter was before me.

We were close enough that I could see Jupiter’s famous “Great Red Spot” in action. Whirlpools and currents and eddies roved its surface, colliding and combining, and ripping apart and reforming. All happening in winds upwards of 200 miles an hour, though from the station it seemed to transpire slow motion. It reminded me of war. Then the door opened, interrupting my revery, and two figures entered. Silouhetted against the eye’s bloody glare, they appeared eight feet tall, spindly, with heads the size of beach balls. Fear flooded me and I pounded against the refrigerator’s glass door. In my panic I began tearing open the Tongue of Kyle packages, desperately hoping for a weapon but they were only frozen, human-looking tongues, only deepening my panic. Meanwhile the creatures had pushed off the wall toward me and were slowly growing in detail, their great heads resolving into halos of white hair and tanned, handsome, one-eyed faces. When they latched onto the refrigerator doors I nearly cried of relief. It was Dave and Also Dave.

After calming me down, Dave and Also Dave gave me a tour of their station. It was much more popular in outer space than it was in Utah. Aliens of all kinds

Equanimity

floated about the station. There were your classic freaks with the huge black eyes and pale skin, a couple R2D2-looking robots, and, to my utter disappointment, a Jar-Jar Binks. But there were also aliens that I had never seen before. Herds of scaled elephants. A giant hairy orb. A Chihuahua. Dave and Also Dave seemed to be on good terms with most of them. It was obvious that they were much more comfortable in outer space than they were on earth. With their hair in a halo around their beautiful faces, and at home in the zero-G, they gave me the most winsome and charming smiles, holding me gently by the arms while they led me from one attraction to the next.

The tourist attractions were much bigger than they were in Utah. There was a life-sized McDonald’s replica, with what seemed like actual humans working inside. When they saw Dave and Also Dave they ran to the windows, banging them and pleading. There were also a three frozen cows, a Titleist golfball, a giant corn palace, and a dried-up water slide. It was nice establishment, very family friendly, but I still thought it was basically what it had been in Utah: a shabby and an obvious tourist attraction.

Perhaps the Daves sensed that I was unimpressed. Perhaps if I had feigned more wonder at their orbiting attractions I would still have my arm. But I was tired, and hungry, and had stopped pretending for people years ago. After the third frozen cow I yawned and motioned at Dave for something to eat. He looked me in the eyes with his big, single eye. It was gold and full of hurt. After a moment he patted my stomach, smiling sheepishly and gestured at the Wonalds. But then Also Dave grabbed his arm and whispered something to him. Dave smacked his forehead and laughed, and when the two turned to me they were smiling again. I pointed at the McDonald’s hopefully, but Dave held up a finger as if to say “One more” and led me back to the station. They tucked me back in the refrigerator and gave me a Coca-Cola. I do not believe it was any cola that they sell in the States, though, because no cola since then has made me feel such a warm and buttery calm as that cola did. The high stuck with me even when Also Dave appeared from the back of the shop with a small light saber. Even when they opened the refrigerator door, exposing me to the vacuum of space, and cut my right arm off was I at peace. There was no blood because the lightsaber cauterized it. They put me back in the refrigerator and I went to sleep.

When I woke up, I was back in my old red Buick, pulled over on the side of the interstate. The dashboard clock read 3:17am. Everything was how it had been when I pulled into Dave’s Cosmic Station, except my arm was gone. Skin was covering it as though I had lost it years before. Dave and Also Dave must have had given me some alien healing agent. Now I’ve said I’m an imaginative person. I do get drifty sometimes, and so I was prepared to admit that hte whole thing was a dream, that I had lost my arm in the war like they said, but then I checked my pocket. Inside was a dusty packet of beef jerky. Its packaging read “Mary’s Minnesotan Beef Jerky: You Betcha!”

Despite knowing everything I had just seen, I couldn’t help myself but to a couple bites. If anybody deserved some beef jerky, it was me. And let me tell you, it tasted sublime. I still have a morsel left over. One day I might bring to a coroner to track down who it belonged to, but I’m afraid that may land me in more trouble than good. That’s why I didn’t tell Denice that I had proof, that I know for certain that it wasn’t a dream. I only tell you, traveler, because you should be warned about driving on Interstate 70 during the night.