When I get to the parking lot there are two other patrons gassing up. A blonde woman in a Toyota is leaning into her car window for something, and a middle-aged man at the pump diagonal to her is watching her backside. He inadvertently overflows a can of gas he’s filling on the ground and he swears as it gets all over the can. I stick to the sidewalk and walk past the station because I spot a pair of payphones on the far side near the street.
I enter the phone booth on the street side, careful to keep my feet clear of the garbage that people have littered on the floor. As I pick up the receiver, the headlights of the Toyota sweep over me as the blonde pulls out of the station. The man with the gas cans is still following her with his eyes. I get my first good look at his face and something about him seems familiar. Something about those glasses maybe?
The car turns right. The man’s eyes follow, and as it passes me, our eyes meet. He holds my gaze for a moment, then turns back to the gas. I pull my logbook out of my pocket and flip to the back to the phone numbers. I glance back to the man with the gas cans. He caps the last one and straightens up to pull a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He taps the packet against the side of his pickup truck and then pulls out a cigarette and lights it.
I turn my attention to the payphone. I have the phone number in my hand, but no change for the phone. Was 1-800-Collect around in the eighties? I start to try the number to find out, but get distracted by the proprietor of the shop poking his head out of the door of the station and yelling at the man at the pump. He’s gesturing at the man’s cigarette.
“No smoking at the pumps!”
The man with the cans has finished setting the last one up in the truck bed and turns to look at the proprietor. He rests his left arm on the side of the truck, and staring blankly at the man, draws another long drag on the cigarette. He holds the smoke in, then blows it casually in the proprietors direction.
The proprietor is out of the doorway now, standing on the cement step with an indignant look on his face. He continues to gesture at the cigarette and I hear a couple more admonishments from him, but the customer ignores them. He closes the tailgate on the pickup and walks to the cab. Opening the door, he begins to climb in. The proprietor is off the step now and yelling.
“Hey! You haven’t paid for that! Where do you think you’re going?”
I lose sight of him as he crosses on the other side of the pumps. I can’t make out the details of what either is saying but then the man with the cigarette walks briskly to the back of the truck and grabs one of the gas cans.
“Is this what you want?” he yells. “You want it back?” He unscrews the top of the can and sloshes some of the gas toward the proprietor, the cigarette still dangling from his lips. The proprietor backs into view from behind the pumps again. He has his hands out in front of him, and the anger on his face has now turned to concern. The man with the gas cans advances past the pumps. “Go on and take it back!”
The proprietor is authentically frightened now. “Are you crazy or something? I’m going to call the police!”
“That’s not smart, to threaten your customers,” the man responds. He advances quicker now, still sloshing gas toward the proprietor, who’s trying unsuccessfully to get out of the way. His pant legs are soaked. The proprietor is taller and a good thirty pounds heavier than the medium-sized customer, but the man with the gas cans keeps advancing.
The proprietor turns and dashes for the door of the store. He opens it and tries to close it behind him, but the man with gas can grabs the handle and yanks the door out of his grip. The proprietor is frantic now. He searches the street, and for a moment, his eyes fall on me. He yells something to me but I can’t make it out. The next moment he disappears into the store.
The man with the gas can turns and follows the proprietor’s last glance and our eyes meet again. This time he smiles at me. It’s that crooked, leering smile that triggers his name in my brain. Stenger. We were right. He is here.
I slam my thumb down on the receiver. I dial 911 as fast as I can and it feels like an eternity waiting for it to ring. I get a dial tone again. Damn it. Don’t they have 911 invented here yet? I push zero and wait for the operator. I can see nothing of either of the men inside the store now.
“Hello, Operator? I need the police.”
“What city?”
“Saint Petersburg, Florida.”
“One moment.”
A banging noise is coming from the store. The phone rings four times before someone picks up. “Saint Petersburg Police. What is your emergency?”
“You need to get someone to the Minute Mart gas station on Sixteenth Street right away. There’s a crazy guy throwing gas on the guy working here. He’s really dangerous.” The lights in the store flicker once and go out. “Get here fast!”
“Okay sir, what is the—”
I drop the phone, leaving it hanging from its cord and run toward the darkened store. Please don’t be dead, dude. Please don’t be dead.
I get to the doors and stop. I can see next to nothing inside, except a few dimly lit display cases on the far wall that are reflecting the streetlights outside.
I didn’t see any weapons on Stenger other than the gas can, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any. I look back at his truck and the driver’s door is still ajar.
Where did you go, you psycho bastard?
I pull the right side glass door open slowly and peer inside. There’s a puddle on the floor just inside the door and I can smell the fumes. I poke my head inside and look to the left. The main counter is to that side, and in the light from the window I can make out the corner of a hallway leading to the back of the store. I slide into the doorway quietly, trying to keep my feet on the raised rubber doormat to stay out of the gas. My eyes adjust to the darkness and I notice signs of a scuffle behind the counter. A display of chewing tobacco has been knocked over and cans of Skoal and packets of Red Man litter the floor. The quiet is unnerving.
“Hey! Are you okay?” I yell into the void of the back hallway. My voice triggers some activity and someone knocks something over. I brace myself with one hand on the door to make a quick exit. A door opens and then slams shut in the back.
“Get away from me, asshole!” comes a disembodied and somewhat muffled voice somewhere in the darkness.
Thank God he’s still alive.
I move cautiously toward the hallway. The floor is slick with gasoline under my bare feet. As I lean around the corner, I can see the exit sign glowing dimly over a back door past a pair of mop buckets and a horizontal freezer. There are two other interior doors along the right side wall.
“Hey, man, it’s the guy from outside!” I yell. “What happened to the guy with the gas can?”
There’s a pause and then the voice of the proprietor comes from the second doorway.
“He was right out there!”
I pick up a wooden mop and grip it with both hands as I eye the other door closest to me with suspicion. The roped end of the mop drips dirty water all over my leg as I reach for the doorknob.
“Where’s this other door go?” I yell.
“That’s the storage closet.” The proprietor sounds more optimistic now that I’m here talking to him. I yank the door open and swing the mop handle quickly around it but only make contact with some bottles of cleaner that go tumbling off a shelf. It’s a small storage space and I can tell it hasn’t been disturbed until my awkward mop attack. I shut the door again swiftly and move to the back door. It’s unlocked. I kick it but it doesn’t open.
My head is starting to swim from the gas fumes. I step up to the door and push with my shoulder. It moves a fraction of an inch but then stops. Something is wedged against the other side. I push my face up to the door and breathe from the crack.
“Hey, I think you can come out now,” I say, addressing the co-ed bathroom sign on the door. “I called the police. They should be on their way. I think that guy must have gone out the back.”
The bathroom is
quiet at first, then I hear the proprietor come to the door and turn the lock. I step away from the door as he cracks it open. His black hair is a sweaty mess on his forehead and his dark eyes are wide in the dim light.
“You sure he’s gone?”
“Not absolutely sure. Where are the circuit breakers?”
“Behind you.”
I turn around and feel for the breaker panel on the wall. I flip open the door and strain my eyes to see what’s been tripped. I locate the main breaker with my fingers and press it back into position. As I shut the panel door and turn around, the fluorescent lights flicker on at the front of the store. My heart jolts in my chest as my eyes fall on the figure of Stenger leering in at the glass doors. He stares at me and scowls. He lifts his gas can and dumps the remaining contents all over the front door.
Through the haze of liquid I watch him grab an auto sales magazine from a rack outside and pull a lighter from his pocket. He casually lights the magazine and then lets the flame slowly grow, while with his other hand he pulls a cigarette from behind his ear. He draws off of the flame and then looks back to me, smoke streaming from his nostrils like a dragon.
Stenger disappears behind a wall of flame as he lights the door. The fire spreads to the ground immediately. Through the flames and smoke I watch Stenger walk to his truck. Most of the gasoline spilled on the ground outside earlier has evaporated, and the flames don’t follow him. The proprietor runs past me to the wall behind the counter and grabs a fire extinguisher. He moves to the door.
“Keep that door shut,” I say.
The flames on the other side die down. The auto sales magazine is still curling itself into oblivion in the flames on the doormat but the fire has not spread inside the door.
Sirens sound in the distance. I look back to the parking lot with a glimmer of hope, but Stenger’s truck is gone. They won’t catch him now.
The proprietor is aiming the extinguisher at the crack in the door to avert disaster at the first sign of flames leaking through. I can’t remember ever being in a more vulnerable position than trapped in a convenience store full of fumes with my legs and feet wet with gasoline, but watching the auto magazine flames turn into smoldering ash on the step, my fear dissipates with it. It’s not going to get inside.
My anxiety returns when the first patrol car pulls into the parking lot. I don’t want to be questioned. How long will it be till they start asking what I was doing barefoot in the parking lot with no I.D. or money, in the middle of the night? What’s my explanation going to be?
“Hey, I’m going to go wash this gas off my feet,” I declare to my companion as I slowly back away from the door. He’s not paying attention. He looks like he’s in shock from the attack and is still staring transfixed at the door. He might be high from all the fumes. More squad cars and a fire engine have pulled into the lot. I turn and head for the bathroom. Before entering, I give the back door at the end of the hallway another quick shove. Nothing. Stenger must have jammed something against it when he went out. I slip into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. How do I get out of this?
I turn on the faucet, stick my right foot into the sink, and begin scrubbing frantically. I pump some soap onto it, rinse it off and repeat with the left, careful to try to keep my balance on the slick floor. Dirt from my walk here swirls down the drain in a dingy whirl. I don’t know why the state of my feet matters to me when I’m going to get them dirty again walking around anyway, but once they’re free of gasoline, I do feel a little better about my situation. I throw a handful of paper towels on the floor and step on them to dry my feet. There are voices out front. Now what do I do?
The bathroom is small, with a single toilet and sink and a fake palm tree in the corner. I check the ceiling, hoping there might be some sort of way out, but there’s nothing. I’m trapped. My eyes fall onto the shiny stainless steel rail that’s been mounted along the wall next to the toilet as an aid for the handicapped. Stationary metal object. Good conductor.
I look at my chronometer. I can get out of here. I just need a time to arrive. The future is no good. Who knows what’s going to happen in this bathroom once the cops start searching this place. Might be closed for a while. Plus I locked the door from the inside. I consider the bathroom door. They’ll have to find a way in, maybe break the door down. So when do I go? Quickly said arriving at night is frequently safer since there are less people around, but does that apply to gas stations? I try to imagine what the proprietor will do if I show up in the middle of the night and startle him. I feel bad for the guy. He’s already had one bad scare.
I decide on arriving in the daytime. I’ll just need to find a way to do it where I won’t end up colliding with someone who happens to be using the bathroom when I show up. I study the toilet and try to visualize the least occupied space around the rail. I grab more paper towels and wipe the seat. I toss the towels toward the bin but only a few make it. I don’t have time to care.
I set one foot on the toilet seat and grab the rail with my left hand and then step up onto the back of the toilet tank. Using the corner of the walls, I turn myself around till I’m squatting above the toilet with one foot on the tank and one on the rail. I try to reach down with my left hand to grab the rail but it’s too awkward of a position to maintain my balance. I need my chronometer to be closer to my grounding point. I unfasten it and transfer it to my right wrist.
I check my settings. Six hours ought to do it. I’m guessing at the time, but I figure six hours ought to put me somewhere around 7 pm, a fairly normal hour of day to escape a gas station. Directional slider to Back. Got that right this time. I reposition with both feet on the tank and just my right hand grabbing the rail. I reach over with my left hand for the chronometer.
Someone knocks on the door and tries the door handle.
“Hey, are you in there?”
Nope. Not anymore.
I push the pin.
11
“If you find a timestream you can live with, don’t be afraid to stay a while. The grass isn’t always greener. Sometimes they don’t even have grass.”
-Excerpt from the journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 2208
There is a little girl sitting on the toilet, humming to herself. Her feet don’t touch the floor. The light swinging of her feet as she hums is making the fake flower on her headband bop around. I get the impression that she’s in no particular hurry.
That is not working very well for me, awkwardly perched above her on the toilet tank. My right hand on the railing is barely outside of her peripheral vision. Any moment now she’s going to hear my breathing or I’m going to slip off the top of the toilet and scare her to death.
The girl starts to sing softly to herself. I can only make out occasional words, something about a pony. Did “My Little Pony” have a theme song? This girl’s mom or dad is going to wonder how she’s doing in here soon. Then this is really going to look bad.
I decide I’m just going to have to make something happen now. I have so much height working for me that the shortest way off of the tank is actually going to be over top of her, provided I don’t crash into the ceiling. I reposition one of my feet quickly and then leap. I clear her easily and land on my feet and one hand in the center of the bathroom floor.
I know I should probably just bolt for the door, but I can’t resist turning around to see the girl’s reaction. Her wide eyes and open-mouthed expression are pretty funny. I smile at her and she doesn’t look scared, only incredulous. That doesn’t seem to stop her from doing the one thing I was hoping to avoid. She screams. It’s one of the ultra high-pitched ear-pain inducing screams that little girls seem uniquely capable of.
That’s my exit cue.
I throw open the door, praying that I won’t immediately run into a parent. The hallway is clear. I catch a glimpse of the proprietor behind a rack of roadmaps. I duck instinctively. I have no idea what happens if he ends up recognizing me later on tonight. I don’t want to find out. I turn and kick the
back door open with my foot. This time it opens easily to a back parking lot and a dark blue sky still catching the last rays of twilight.
I’m out the door in a matter of moments and sprinting for a low chain fence that borders an adjoining residential yard. I’m over the fence and into the backyard as fast as my legs can take me. The fence at the side yard turns from chain link to wood as it wraps around the back of the house. I stop once I’m behind the wooden fence and deposit myself between two leafy ferns at a crack between the boards. I watch the back of the station and see the proprietor poke his head out and scan the parking lot. There are voices behind him but no one else emerges. He strides into the lot and looks around the corner to the pumps, then looks the other direction toward the dumpster before heading back in and shutting the door.
Close call that time.
The backyard has a gate to the alley. I slip out without a second look at the house. I know there could be some little old lady leering out her blinds as I cut through her yard but I’m not worried about it. I don’t plan on sticking around. I stop and gingerly pull a pair of sand spurs out of the arch of my foot and then head away from the station. The gravel and dirt alley makes for slow going with my bare feet and the dim light.
I never did get my phone call.
I’m not going back to that payphone again.
I figure I now have about sixteen hours till I disappear off of that roof. You’re going the wrong direction, Ben. Blake will be waiting for me to reappear next to him. Maybe I can still get there.
Successfully escaping the bathroom has given me more confidence in my abilities. Perhaps I could find a way to make it back without having to call Quickly or have any more run-ins with serial arsonists. I reorient myself to where I am and begin walking back into Quickly’s neighborhood. I need another safe anchor. The roof had been good when I had shoes on, but barefoot I’m less confident of jumping from shingles. The smooth porcelain of the toilet top hadn’t been a concern but outdoors I’m going to need to be more selective. I scan people’s yards as I pass them, checking their yard ornaments and fixtures. One porch has a wooden cuckoo clock hanging over their Adirondack chairs that catches my eye.
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 20