cincinnati, OH (recap)

(Feb 19th. Later on.)
She’s standing in front of a cigarette case that has been arranged to allow her presence in the spot behind the register without covering a single brand. The empty silhouette seems to be the only blank wall surface, the rest of the room being plastered in stickers off of Miller bottles and fading pastels of once neon signs. Decrepit wood paneling is peeling from the wall, exposing a series of fist shaped holes. I’ve been standing in the same place long enough for my shoes to sink into the third layer of last year’s grime, the outline of my sole framed in a linoleum square.

“’Scuse me?” She’s crossed her arms, maneuvering her neck in such a way that would typically accompany a snap or wag of the finger. Instead, she’s locked into a hard stare.
“Whad you jus’ say?”
“I’d like forty dollars for diesel on pump eight, please.”
“I got that part, sweedhard, whad you say afder?
“Eh, do you have a public restroom?”

What I had really said was closer to something along the lines of, “Hey, wow. This is eh…” I had glanced down to my feet, peeling them each up from the floor one by one filling the room with the crisp sticky sound of a movie-theatre.
“Strange. Anyhow, glad you’re open. You know how hard it is to find a gas station in these parts? INCREDIBLY. I mean, I can maybe understand the being closed on Sunday thing, you know, for a day of rest or whatnot, but who doesn’t need to fuel up on their late night pleasure cruise? Right? I mean really? Honestly though you could double your prices of gas just at night and make a fortune. I mean it, consider it. So anyway... whoa is that Big League Chew? Would you mind telling me what state I’m in? I know, I know, not mental state or anything, though I’m sure this seems a bit odd (insert strange tada jazz hands induced pose here), but honestly, you could say Spain and I’m sure I’d believe you (uncomfortable laughter). Man, I really have to, uh… oh yeah I wanted some orange juice, so do you have a public restroom?”

Hours of NPR in the van driving into a dark fog apparently leaves me prone to regurgitating any passing thought across anything with a pulse.

She points behind her at the wall. There is a large display of Five Hour Energy that is blocking the area she is pointing towards. My feet follow the path of her finger, stepping behind the display now with her behind the counter. It’s a flowered bed sheet.

I look towards her again. She nods. I pinch the smallest amount of fabric possible between my thumb and index finger, lifting the sheet just far enough away from the door to duck through. The sink is running. I turn the knob on the faucet; it comes off in my hand. I look up above the sink to exchange a worried glance with my reflection but am met with a sign written with a dried out red marker, “Do not put paper in toilet. None.” I return the knob and extend my gaze towards the toilet.

It hadn’t occurred to me how narrow the room was until seeing the back of the toilet resting against the wall to my right, and the front of its bowl pressed against the opposing one. I shrug and slowly lift one leg over the toilet as if mounting a horse, sliding my shoe down between its porcelain body and the wall. Success.

I’m feeling rather accomplished as I stand to adjust my pants. As I tug my belt loops upwards, my left heel grazes against the base of the toilet under my shifting weight and the room suddenly fills with the sound of porcelain sliding on ceramic tile. In a matter of moments I am on the floor next to a toilet, both of us toppled on our side. You just got seven STDs and bird flu. Instantly, I am on my feet, hands outstretched in front of me as if willing a marionette back to life. The toilet had been positioned over a bucket that has been dug into the floor. There is no attachment keeping it there, no pipes that would have allowed it to function properly, and no way I can face that woman after causing such a loud crash. Scrapes in the tile hint that I’m not the first this has happened to. I crouch down and wrap my arms around the smooth body bringing it back upwards over the hole in the floor. Make it fifteen STDs.

I throw back the bed sheet and bee line straight towards the van. I can feel the attendant’s eyes following me across the room. An empty can on the hinge of the door clatters as I exit. I shuffle my feet raising clouds of dust as I cross the lot towards the van. Reality sinks is just as my keys turn and lights appear on the dash, I still have no diesel. I take a deep breath and step out of the van. I’m reaching for my socks through my pockets. My legs high kick back towards the station, raising dust clouds waist high. I’m wondering how it can get any worse when Bruce Hornsby creeps into my head. Figures.

Her arms are still crossed. She’s plastered on a smug grin as if she’d just witnessed someone steal something only to have their mother escort them back to apologize. I opt to start over.

“Good evenin’, madam. Could I borrow a moment of your time? I am in need of forty dollars on pump eight and this here beverage of squeezed oranges.”

Each properly annunciated word shoot as perfect daggers across the counter. Her tight grin overturns into a scowl as she passes the juice over her scanner. I thank her, tip my invisible hat, and leave.

I’m humming Hornsby and washing down my headlights as the diesel slows to a halt. I cross back over to the driver’s side and remove the nozzle, taking the giant step up into the cab when I hear static over the intercom.

“If I find a crack in that toilet yous payin’ for it.”

I pull the van round parallel with the front doors. I can see her positioned in the same spot behind the register holding the mic to her mouth staring at me. I roll down the window and listen to the hum of my engine. The static falls silent as I watch the attendance place the mic below her counter. My Spanish traveling companion is repeating for me to take a U-turn, and I think she might be right, I should back off. I start rolling up my window and the intercom static begins again. I turn and face her.

“Tennessee. Yous in Tennessee.”