Blake Kingsley pulled his truck and fifth wheel into a vacant island of Huck's Gas Mart in downtown Longview, Washington, and stopped the engine. He climbed out and put his gray Stetson on his head. Heavy, cold rain beat down on the overhang and the air smelled of gasoline. He lifted the nozzle, pressed the mid-grade button and pumped forty dollars worth of gas into his tank, mumbling his displeasure the whole time. When he finished, he put handle back and ambled toward the pay station, the soles of his boots smacking in puddles.
A sleepy-eyed, brunette attendant behind a counter looked at him over her gold-rimmed glasses and blinked long, curling lashes.
Tipping onto his toes, he drew a couple of wadded bills from his tight jeans’ pocket and placed them on the steel counter.
The attendant took them without a word.
"Thank you, Ma'am," he said and returned to his truck.
He climbed into the cab, closed the door and within the minute, drove toward Kalama, Washington, taking the interstate north. Pangs of loneliness entered his system again. He thought about his family; those alive and dead. I need to make a call. He retrieved his cell phone from the center console. Without swerving off the road, he dialed his sister in Rufus, Oregon.
"Katy, this season's done. Thank God."
"I hope you come home." Her voice sounded creaky. He imagined her soft, freckled face and auburn, curly hair. “It’s been quiet here since mom and dad's died.”
A picture of their parent’s crumpled automobile, with blood on the seats the day after their head on collision in Medford played in his mind. The horrible call from the emergency room had come announcing their demise. He gulped air in his sadness.
His sister sighed, bringing him back to the here and now. “Things are fallin' apart around this ol’ place. Frank's not into ranchin’. He can't even ride a horse."
Blake wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and the remembrance ended. He clucked his tongue, recalling her tenderfoot boyfriend, Frank. "I'll bet." A misplaced smile quirked at the corners of his lips. It's best I change the subject, or she'll cry. "What do you want for Christmas, sis?"
"Just get here safely. We'll have a nice holiday, if you come. I'm invitin' you, you know."
"I'll spring for the turkey, if I was to come," Blake said and placed his Stetson on the passenger seat.
"So, how are you doin' otherwise, little brother?'"
"It's best you not ask, 'cause right now, I'm in a piss poor mood."
"Why's that?"
"These friggin’ gas prices suck. They're high as hell. It costs too much drivin' the circuit anymore. I'm twenty-eight and gettin' too old for bustin' broncs."
"Get a different job, then. Stay home, settle down. Maybe get a job as, I dunno, be a cop."
"I've done ruint my back."
"Maybe it's time to quit."
"I've got to think about it. See you."
"Tell your buddy hi. Oh, and call when you get close."
"Will do."
Once he put the cell phone back in the case and closed the console lid, he took a left onto a different highway and began thinking about what Katy didn't know—his ideas on sexual preferences. It’d shock her to death. He thought about his job situation, too. Maybe I'll work the farm. Or become a cop. At a stoplight he lit a cigarette and slid the Bic back into the pocket of his blue western shirt. Right now, all I do is get out there and risk life and limb...for what? To give the audience thrills, and all I get is a few measly dollars. Shit. I must have rocks in my fuckin' head. What the hell am I goin' to do? Should I rodeo another year, or quit? Cops’ lives are always in danger. Maybe my back ain't in good enough shape to do that kind of work. |
