My mother named me Christina because she was a Christian at the time, and it seemed like the right thing to do. I’m just glad she wasn’t Buddhist, because you can’t make any reasonable-sounding names that I’m aware of out of the demonyms of that.
It’s not a bad name. It sounds respectable enough that someday, if I ever get a real job, I can expect that they’ll at least consider me for it. And in the meantime, it’s flexible enough that I can have a nickname for any occasion. Still, I can wish that Deirdre wasn’t yelling any of them across the store.
“Kit!” She’s getting shrill, which is completely unnecessary in this cramped gas station convenience store, and she knows full well that I’m busy. After all, she broke the coffee machine and doesn’t know how to fix it. “Christina!”
“Yeah?” I know she’s not going to take my leisurely response well, but there’s really not terribly much she can do about it. Even if our manager came in to work half as much as he was supposed to, this is one hundred percent her fault.
“There’s some guy over here trying to pay with Bitcoins.” She sounds more frazzled than usual at this point, and it takes a few seconds to mold what she’s saying into something my brain can recognize.
I pull my phone out of my apron pocket and glance at the clock icon before responding. Four minutes left in my shift, and I’ve spent about twenty trying to get this machine working. Any minute now Jose will show up and this won’t be my problem anymore. “We don’t take Bitcoins, Deirdre.”
She shoots me a scowl- she can tell that I only used her name in front of the customer because she used mine. The customer himself is a bit hard to see, long-haired and dressed in a stiff leather jacket that could fit both Deirdre and me in it, if either of us would tolerate being squeezed together like that. He’s still facing Deirdre, but the sound of my voice causes his head to tip up a bit.
Deirdre’s annoyance turns to triumph as quickly as ever, her face switching gears as only Deirdre can. “You heard her. No Bitcoins. Cash, Visa, Mastercard, Discover, no Amex, no anything else. Sound good?”
The guy sighs, lets his shoulders sag just enough that I can tell they don’t really fill out his jacket. Not terribly surprising, since he doesn’t look all that tall and his legs are pretty thin. “I wasn’t really expecting it.” There’s something pleasant and melodic in his voice, but I still can’t see him. “I have Visa. Can I fill it up?” He points out the plate-glass window in the front and I see a tan pickup at the nearest pump, the boring dusty color fairly glowing against the mostly-black strip of desert between here and Interstate 40.
“Sure, leave the card here.” Deirdre sounds disappointed. She was probably hoping for something more out of the ordinary, and I can’t really blame her. Nobody wants to be stuck working at a gas station in Laguna, New Mexico for their entire life, and Deirdre’s just trying to keep herself entertained to take her mind off the odds that she will be. We joined up within a few days of each other, back in high school, but that was almost three years ago now and college doesn’t look like an option for either of us.
The guy saunters out, still mostly keeping his back to me, and Jose passes him on the way in. Jose is sixteen, nearly four years younger than Deirdre and me, and he’s still excited by the prospect of having a real job. Not that he doesn’t know how to work already, but his family thinks this is more respectable than herding cattle and selling crafts for a living. It’s more air-conditioned regardless.
“What’s happening, Deirdre?” Jose always seems to be smiling, and I can’t help but find the juxtaposition of that grin, brighter than the fluorescent lamps in the ceiling, with Deirdre’s sourpuss amusing.
“What’s ever happening,” Deirdre mutters, tapping the guy’s credit card against the counter.
Jose wanders over to the personal items cubicles and retrieves his green-and-white apron, throws it on faster than should be humanly possible. I give the machine one last glare, wondering if I can just will it to work properly. Nope; the front panel is still on the ground and I doubt anything is getting through that nozzle while it’s at that angle.
Meanwhile, my replacement is thus far undeterred by Deirdre’s lack of enthusiasm. “That one old guy who lives up past New Laguna bought another cow skull. I don’t know what he’s doing with them all.” Jose’s ideas on this particular subject have, in the past, ranged from black magic to Native American traditions to murderous aliens with strange fetishes.
I’d rather not hear today’s. “Jose?”
He looks over to me, still grinning. “Hi Kit! How’s your week going?”
“Same old,” I sigh, leaving just enough of a gap to change the subject politely before he jumps in on it. “Could you take a look at this? You’re better with machines than I am.”
It’s a questionable statement, but nothing makes people want to do a job quite like flattery. He’s fiddling before he’s finished agreeing. As I make my way back to the cubicles to drop off my apron, I can see a brief flash of amusement across Deirdre’s face. It’ll last until he finds out that she broke it.
I almost miss the vibration of my phone as I’m pulling the apron off. It’s Mom, and she’s still at the hospital. WILL BE LATE GET A RIDE IF U CAN. Mom’s been a nurse for the last year or so, and she’s had the phone for about five. She figured out nursing in a few weeks with pretty much no background, but she still doesn’t know how to send text messages that aren’t exclusively in capital letters.
The groan escapes my lips primarily because its captor had forgotten that she had company who wouldn’t simply ignore it. “What’s wrong?” Deirdre is hovering over me within a second or two, straining to make herself taller so she can read over my shoulder. I have five inches on her, though, so she’ll have to put herself at my mercy if she wants to know.
And lo, I am merciful. “My mom’s still at work, so I think I’m stuck here for a while.” I slump against the counter, slipping the phone back into my pocket. It’s not the worst thing in the world, but I spend enough of the day working that I’d rather not spend more time here, not getting paid.
“I’ll give you a ride if it gets my credit card back.” I didn’t hear our customer come back in. Now my interest is definitely piqued, though, so I pivot my hips until I’m resting against the counter at the opposite angle.
He’s actually fairly good-looking if you ignore the hair, which needed a trim about six months ago. More importantly, despite how weird the proposition he just made is, he doesn’t look like a serial killer.
Deirdre has suddenly become a wall between us, arms folded across her chest and what I’m sure is her most menacing stare fixed on the customer. “If you do that, I want to hear from her in ten minutes!” That’s cutting it a bit close for the trip to my house, but I appreciate the sentiment.
Our customer rolls his eyes at her. “I’m on pump two.” He spreads a remarkably battered receipt on the counter. Deirdre takes it and begins ringing him up, releasing a steady stream of mutters which are supposed to sound menacing without containing any actual words.
“You mean it about the ride?” I’m no stranger to hitchhiking short distances. My family’s person-to-vehicle ratio is high enough that my stepfather taught me how to hitchhike at age eight. Mom wasn’t too happy about that incident because she considers ten the appropriate age for that sort of thing.
He glances down at the card reader, confirms that Deirdre is actually putting his information in. “Well, if you’re going somewhere that isn’t too far from I-40 and west of here, I’ll be happy to.”
There’s enough uncertainty coloring his voice that I almost decide against it, but that is the general direction of my home. “I’m just over in New Laguna.” Blank stare- he must not be from around here. “It’s the next town along this road.”
“Oh, sure.” He takes his card from Deirdre, scribbles on the receipt, and then watches me with a tense neutral expression as I extricate myself from behind the counter. I’m not sure if he’s not used to hitchhikers or just doesn’t want me in his truck because I’m taking up his time, not exactly pretty, and/or have a crazy friend.
“I’m serious. Call me.” Deirdre isn’t as used to this as I am. She’s looking at me as if I were her daughter, all the way to the truck.
It’s that pleasantly cool time of evening when the world has just finished forgetting about how it was baked a few hours before. The lights overhead, as ever, are producing their faint electrical hum, a dull insulation against the echo of my deliverer’s loping steps. His strides are long despite his size, and he’s already in the truck by the time I’ve reached the passenger door.
“So where am I taking you?” The engine grumbles a bit louder than I’m used to, and there are receipts scattered on the floor, but it’s a cleaner truck than I’d expected.
I muster as much poise as one can while strapping oneself in. “Basically, keep following this road and I’ll show you where you can drop me. The road joins Route 40 a little past there, so it won’t really be out of your way.”
“That’s good. I’m late.”
There’s a hint of irony in his voice, but I can’t place it. Regardless, my focus has jumped to that he would point this out at all. “If you don’t want to, you don’t have to give me a ride,” I offer. Does he really want to get rid of me that badly?
He sighs, and somehow even that has the same whisper of irony in it. “I’d rather talk to someone for a few minutes than sing to myself for the next god-knows-how-many hours.” He pulls out from the pump, not bothering to check the deserted road as the truck creaks out into the lane. “So what road are we on, just in case I get lost anyway?”
“Route 66.” I point out a rusted Historic Route 66 sign as we pass. He makes a little surprised grunting noise, as guys seem inexplicably prone to doing. “This is a little spur that survived the interstate. It connects to the interstate again in a bit less than ten miles. Just don’t get off the road and you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks.” He lapses into silence, and so do I. Despite claiming he wants to talk, he seems to be more interested in looking straight ahead at the road.
I suppose I’ll have to take matters into my own hands. “Where are you going?” He glances over at me briefly, just long enough for me to feel silly and stammer out an “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“All the way to LA.” He doesn’t exactly sound happy about this, and I can already see another silence coming. Something seems to change his mind, though. “Do you mind the music?”
“Huh?” I hadn’t even noticed it. I’m usually half-addicted to music, and I hadn’t heard it. I explain this, and he turns the volume dial over two ticks.
The band is one I don’t recognize- something like very sleepy heavy metal or blues with a bad cold. Even with the volume up, it’s barely more than ambiance. “I didn’t hear it,” I repeat, “and I don’t know this song.”
“It’s by Kyuss,” he offers. The name doesn’t ring any bells. “Oh well, I can turn it off if you want.”
“Leave it on, I don’t want to impose.” I feel like I’ve said this quite a bit lately. I’d rather not have to again.
He leans his elbow out the open window, makes a show of looking over at the ruin that is Laguna as we pass through. “Do you enjoy living here?”
Now that was not a question I was expecting. He seems to realize this and follows up in almost a babble. “I mean, some people like living in these little out-of-the-way towns. I meet people in them who want to get out to the cities, too, and then there’s people like me who pretty much live on the road…”
Now that he’s trailed off, I guess I should still answer. “I’ve only ever lived here. I don’t have much to compare it to.” Almost as soon as the words have left my mouth, I regret them. I can feel him judging me. “I mean, I’ve been to other places, and enough of them, but I live in the house I was born in and there’s not much chance of getting out.”
“You’re close enough to Albuquerque,” he ventures. I raise an eyebrow at him, and when he still doesn’t get it, point out that I am currently hitching a ride from him. That shuts him up.
“I’m sorry.” Laguna has passed, and now we’re traversing the emptiness between there and New Laguna in silence, other than the guttural sounds of Kyuss. I turn to watch him, defensively, but he actually looks remorseful. “I didn’t mean that. But there are jobs like mine in the cities, you know.”
He drops it long enough that I can’t help but follow the bait. “What do you mean?” I deadpan, making sure he knows I don’t appreciate him stringing me along like that.
“There are jobs which involve getting a company car. I’ve seen a few ads for them in cities. And there are things like courier and chauffeur which are basically just driving.”
“Is that what you do?” People love to try to convince you that what they’re doing with their lives is a great idea. Even if it’s one of those crazy pyramid sales scheme things- my mom got caught up in the Cutco craze a while back and probably convinced more people to join the scheme than to sell knives. But I really am interested in the idea of a company car.
A grin tugs at the edge of his mouth. “You could say that.”
“If it’s illegal, I don’t want to know.” I’m suddenly a bit more worried about this ride.
“No, no,” he insists, still grinning. “Perfectly legal. Feels kinda pointless sometimes, but I don’t break any laws. And yes, I’m more or less a courier.”
“I didn’t know jobs like that were real,” I admit. I’ve heard of legal couriers, sure, but if you’re breaking the law around here it’s a deputy who’ll be bringing you the warrant.
“Look for ads from Albuquerque- or Phoenix or Santa Fe, I suppose. You’ll probably find one.” The song dies with a whimper, and the familiar chords of the Eagles’ Peaceful Easy Feeling replace it. Quite the change, I must admit, and it makes me reconsider my host again. This was one of the first songs I learned when I started my half-baked attempt to play guitar.
But my corner is now looming up out of the blackness, the bent street sign jutting out into the road. “Drop me here,” I direct him. “I won’t make you go farther in.”
“Gotcha.” He pulls over smoothly. “Good luck finding something to compare this to…”
He’s fishing for my name. “Christina,” I inform him, already climbing out. I flash him a smile, hoping not to seem too ungrateful. “And I hope your trip to LA feels less pointless…” I try to drag the last syllable out the way he did, hoping he’ll catch my drift.
“Alex. Oh, it’s already been more interesting than usual.” I’ve shut the door, but he gives me a perplexed smile through the open window. “Good night!”
“And thank you!” I call. I can’t bring myself to completely turn away for some reason- my head keeps getting drawn to the side as I make my way down the dusty margin of the road. I hear him pull away shortly, but as he goes, he’s singing along with the car stereo. I can’t help grinning.
ns 172.69.59.209da2
and then Add to home screen.