Insomnia 2: A Short Story

The pungent scent of freshly lit tobacco hit my nostrils.  I didn’t even remember pulling a cigarette out of the pack.  I glanced at the clock on the dashboard and took a mental note of the time.  My adventure started five hours earlier as a ten minute trip for gas and cigarettes.  I shifted my gaze to the left of the dashboard clock and saw that the orange needle had grown uncomfortably close to the capital letter  E on the fuel gauge.  Everything after my stop at the gas station five miles from home was a blur.

Within minutes, the old Chevy began to sputter and cough, begging me to find a gas station as soon as possible.  I knew that I had to find refuge soon, or place yet another embarrassing call for a rescue out in the middle of nowhere.  It was always so much easier to find a place to stop when I wound up somewhere familiar.  This was not one of those times.  I was surrounded by farm land.  I scanned the landscape and saw the twinkling of sunlight on metal in the distance.  The effect was very similar to far off water in an expanse of hot, arid land.  A perfect metaphor for these situations in which I constantly found myself.

The old pickup was finicky but reliable.  I knew if I pointed it at the distant signs of civilization, gently pushed it up to sixty miles per hour, then dropped it into neutral, it would stall but coast another three quarters of a mile on flat ground.  Longer if I was on a down grade.  Once the truck came to a stop, all of its momentum exhausted, it would miraculously start up again as if nothing had happened and allow me a second go at the same process.  It would do this without fail, and on more than one occasion, it had let me perform this maneuver a third time.  Whether or not the third opportunity presented itself that day, I knew I was going to come up just short of the town ahead.

Being a strange, fairly out of shape man pushing a truck up a subtle grade in an unfamiliar town tends to gain the attention of the locals.  Luckily, by then I had seen the Shell logo hovering over an ancient gas station a few blocks from where I stalled.  At least now I knew where I was pushing the truck without having to stop and ask for directions, thus sacrificing all of my forward momentum.

I had become somewhat of an expert at guessing whether I could expect help pushing my truck to where it needed to go.  I was in a quaint, friendly farming town with a welcome mat at every front door and a “please come again,” on every business sign.  There were plenty of people walking up and down the sidewalks, most staring at me or making comments to whomever they chose to walk with on that particular day about not wanting to be in my shoes.  I knew I was pushing my truck the last few hundred feet myself.

The entrance to the gas station was slightly downhill, so I hopped behind the wheel as the truck rolled on its own.  I needed both hands on the wheel to steer past the kerosene pumps and move the truck up to one of two gas pumps at the completely desolate gas station.  If it wasn’t for the attendant leering at me through the window of the convenience shop, I would have assumed the place was abandoned.

The townsfolk had lost interest in me now that I hadn’t dropped dead from a heart attack, ran myself over with my own truck, or lost control on the subtle downhill grade, crashing into the pumps, causing an explosion that engulfed their quaint little town in hellfire.  I shoved the gear selector into park and hopped out of the truck.  I went to the back and sat on my rusty, homemade bumper, pulling the pack of cigarettes from my shirt pocket.  One left.  It seemed as though my smoking habit was subconsciously linked to the fuel economy of the truck.  I put the cigarette against my lips, flicked my lighter, and inhaled another dose of the heavy, pungent smoke that marked the conscious beginning of this adventure.

The cigarette couldn’t have been lit for more than thirty seconds before the attendant was out the door of the convenience shop and screaming at me for smoking by the gas pumps.  I felt like an idiot.  The attendant continued to scream, explaining that the last person at the pumps had spilled their gas can right where I was resting.  I looked down half believing the story was a lie to make me feel worse. It turns out that the locals were very close to getting the explosion they were watching for when I rolled in.  I apologized and walked to the back side of the convenience shop.  The attendant followed and continued his verbal abuse.

The man stood uncomfortably close as he told me that they didn’t have a service station and that I couldn’t leave my broken truck in front of one of his pumps.  The smell of garlic was strong on his breath, and I spent most of the time during his rant pretending to listen while I made guesses about whether he was the owner of the gas station, or a retired part timer.

 I assured him that the truck was just out of gas and not broken.  Sharing this information did not seem to alleviate any of his concerns.  He went on about how I was blocking his pump for other paying customers, and about how loitering was a crime.  I played dumb and apologized long enough to finish three quarters of my cigarette.  I looked around for an ash can, found none, scraped the cherry off the cigarette on the ground, rolled up the butt between my thumb and index finger, and flicked it into the garbage can.  The attendant threatened to call the police.

I walked back to the truck and filled both of the tanks.  The pump registered fifty gallons of eighty nine octane.  I walked inside and bought a carton of the attendants most expensive cigarettes.  I paid for the fuel and the cigarettes with cash.  This transaction apparently had more calming power than any apology I had given earlier.  I took the opportunity to ask the attendant what town I was in.  He told me, but the name was unfamiliar.  I was well aware that if I asked what state I was in, the peace treaty that I has just bought with petroleum and tobacco would be over, and the attendant would be back to making threats.  This time I imagined he would have called the nearest mental health facility as well as the local authorities.  I told him thanks and walked out the door glancing at the community calendar board full of fliers.

The area codes on the fliers let me know that I had crossed the state line and was now in Ohio.  Again.  I fired up the truck and drove it around to the back of the convenience shop, a haze of blue smoke chasing me the whole way.  I could see the attendant through the window and again, he was glaring at me with mean, un-trusting eyes.  I opened the glove box and pulled out a ragged, dog-eared Ohio map that came with the truck.  I got out and climbed into the bed of the truck to get a better view of the streets around me and lit another cigarette while looking at the map.  It took thirty seconds to find my location on the map, another twenty seconds to plan my route home.  I pretended to look at the map for another two cigarettes.  Each butt was flicked carelessly into the lot beside the convenience shop for the sole purpose of annoying the attendant.  I left when I saw him pick up the phone.

Self Portrait On Cardboard

Not much to say here.  I made a new self portrait.  I'm getting bored of these and feel it's time to move on.  I want to start making portraits of other people, but I've noticed lately that I draw myself better when I'm looking in a mirror as opposed to a photograph.  I would like to have people sit for me, but it's an odd request and I'm horribly awkward.  Anyhow, I have an abstract piece in the works, and I plan on doing some more printmaking soon.  For now, there's this:

As always, thanks for reading.

-Raygun

Insomnia 1: A Short Story

“Would you like some more?”


“Sir, would you like some more?”

I came to as the waitress hovered over me holding a pot of coffee in her right hand.  I looked down  and saw that my cup was mostly empty.  I nodded.   She expertly filled my cup with a hand that had performed this task tens of thousands of times before, leaving just enough room for cream should I choose to add some.  Her voice was familiar, but her face was not.

I remembered coming here, sitting down, ordering, and pulling out my sketchbook.  There had been a different waitress helping me then.  It was still dark out, so no more than two or three hours could have slipped by.  My burger and fries were room temperature and untouched.  The sketchbook page was also empty.  There was a burnt out cigarette butt resting between the index and middle fingers of my right hand. 

I glanced at the faded, nicotine stained wall clock above the door of the diner and wrote down the time and date in the upper corner of the sketchbook page, closed the cover and pulled out my wallet.  The waitress came back and asked if I needed a box for my burger.  I shook my head, and left a large tip with instructions to give part of it to the previous waitress.  I doubted that my first waitress would see the cash.  This happened almost every time I was there and made the servers very reluctant to help me when I first walked in.  I didn’t hold it against them.