Gas Station Pocket Universe

Flash Fiction

Photo by Alphonse Dupuis on Unsplash

Out of the summer night void, a car materializes, pulling into a parking space lit by searing white luminescence spilling out of the windows. Sun-bleached posters advertise “Don’t forget the ice”, and some new alien flavors of Mountain Dew - “2 for 5$”. The door is stiff against the pull and then swings slowly shut by itself. There is a brief moment where the fresh night air is punctuated with rancid fried food and the memory of smoked tobacco.

A transition between the natural and artificial.

The sneakers stick to the burnt-orange tiled floor, making a satisfying sound as they peel off with each step. A maudlin country tune strums faintly.

The cashier leans on the counter, an unlit cigarette between the red-acrylic-nailed fore and middle finger, a smartphone held in the other hand. She watches peering over her tortoise-shell framed glasses.  

The reflection in the fridge’s glass door is filtered by a spectrum of color – sodas, energy drinks, flavored milk, and beers.

Just water is needed.

The gentle hum and whir of the fridges and slushie machines serenade the scene – as the seal of the fridge is broken and the water bottle taken.

Overcooked chicken, meat composite, and fried aroma emanate from the hot boxes, a thick smell that feels absorbed by skin and clothes. It dominates the whole space, and it will linger in olfactory memory for many minutes after this place has been left behind.

The food glistens with arterial plaque.

The combo deals on the confectionary stands radiate pre-diabetic conditions.

Tacky state-specific souvenirs and cheap sunglasses destined to transform into a choking hazard for sea life – like this water bottle.

The sneakers peel themselves towards the cashier who waits impatiently to be able to enjoy her cancer-inducing medication. The water is on the counter. A collage of 21+ and health hazard warnings arrange themselves across the smoking products behind her – foreboding omens.

“Any gas, honey?” She grunts.

“No.”

Tap or Insert Card.

Bleep.

“Want your receipt?”

“I’m good.”

The sneakers peel themselves towards the door. The door is stiff against the push and then swings slowly shut by itself. There is a brief moment where the night air is still tainted by the rancid fried food and old cigarette smell.

 Into the summer night void, a car dissolves, leaving an empty parking space lit by searing white luminescence spilling out of the windows.

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At time of writing: Recently, I’ve been doing a fair amount of long-distance driving across the continental United States and a lot of travel in general. Every time I get sent away for work it’s a two and half hour drive to the airport, a flight, then typically there is at least another hour to three hours of driving after that.

When on the move, especially on day-long drives, it feels as if you enter this transitory warp bubble. Somehow you are out of sync with the rest of the world, you blast by city after city, people going about their days but you are just driving and driving. I don’t do much night driving, but on multi-day trips, I am restricted to driving about ten hours, then lodging for the night. Depending on how early I get to the lodging, I am usually awake before dawn and start driving at the tail end of the night. During the witching hours.

At night this warp bubble effect always seems more obvious. When needing to stop to refuel, get a beverage, or use the facilities it feels like stepping out of space-time. Petrol stations, or “gas stations” are pretty similar across the US and Canada, they’re not that dissimilar to the service stations at home in the Antipodes, but different enough that sometimes the “out-of-time” and “out-of-place” feeling is more exuberant than locals might experience.

Everyone stops at the gas station at one time or another - and old or new there is some kind of agreement or unspoken rule of how the layout of the gas station is and what kind of items you expect to see for sale there. After hours of driving, when pulling over I often feel as if I’ve entered some sort of pocket universe, where it’s just all the other space travelers and the station itself - as if nothing else around it really exists. At night this is almost the case because gas stations are sometimes the only things open aside from 24-hour McDonald’s.

This mundane aspect of the road travel experience is I think somewhat universal, especially within North America. During my most recent trip away I wrote and tried to capture this dream-like uncanny experience in this small piece.

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