hearing her name.
“It might not be helpful but it’s certainly relevant, John ,” she said.
“Take a right,” I said.
“That means left,” Elise said. “Jess has a one hundred percent inaccuracy rate.”
“That’s true,” I said. “I do.”
He took a left and drove a ways and then a ways farther. He was searching for a place to turn around when we saw it. The gas station sat by itself, weeds growing up through chunks of concrete. There were bars on the windows and the advertisements were all in Spanish. It was hard to believe that there was any need for a gas station out here.
“I bet the bathroom’s on the outside,” Elise said. “I hate when it’s on the outside.”
“I like those enormous keys,” I said.
Our father went inside to pay—the pumps didn’t take credit cards—and the three of us followed him. Two men stood in front of a fireplace, smoking and drinking coffee. It was like we’d walked into their living room. They stopped talking and one of them pointed to the right back corner.
Elise tried the knob and it opened, felt around for the light. She shut the door, but then she opened it and pulled me inside with her.
“I think it’s a front,” she said. “There wasn’t much for sale.”
“Gas is for sale,” I said.
“It’s a front,” she said, “trust me. I know one when I see one.”
The bottle of soap had been diluted to a thin pink liquid. I pumped some into my hands and held them under the water while Elise squatted over the toilet. There wasn’t a mirror. There wasn’t even the outline of a place a mirror had been.
“I hate traveling,” she said. “People think it’s so fun to be uncomfortable but it’s not fun. I’m not feeling challenged . I’m not learning anything.”
“Who thinks it’s fun to be uncomfortable?”
“Oh you know, traveler types. On the upside, at least my period won’t be making a surprise appearance.”
“That’s not funny.”
“You’re right,” she said. “It’s not funny. It’s not funny at all. Hand me a paper towel, this toilet paper is wet.”
Our mother and father were waiting when we opened the door.
“Use the paper towels,” I said.
Elise told the men that the bathroom needed toilet paper and they nodded slowly. We debated over popsicles, deciding coconut would make us feel like we were on vacation. We opened the wrappers and placed them on the counter, ate them while checking out the bricks of beige candy, bags of chips with crazy fonts. I picked up a thick bar with almonds on top and Elise took it out of my hand and put it back.
“Mexican candy isn’t any good,” she said. “It just tastes like sugar.”
“I like sugar.”
“It tastes like stale old sugar. Let’s look at the shirts.”
We flipped through a rack of oversized t-shirts in thick, scratchy cotton until Elise noticed a stack of cowboy boots in a corner.
“Dude,” she said. “I can feel it. It’s my lucky day.”
She sorted through the boxes until she found a pair of bright blue boots in her size. She held her popsicle between her teeth as she slipped one on. “A little big,” she said, turning her foot this way and that. She put her hands on her hips. “What do you think?”
“They make your legs look good.”
“They do, don’t they?” she said, kicking a Styrofoam cooler.
Our father came out of the bathroom and I waved. When I saw him in public, even at an empty gas station in the middle of nowhere, I liked him better. I thought about these men treating him unkindly or laughing at him and it hurt my feelings.
Elise put her flip-flops in the box and placed it next to our popsicle wrappers, and our father paid without comment. Once we were in the car, I wished I’d gotten a pair so we would be wearing the same thing, but I hadn’t even checked to see if they’d had my size.
Our mother wanted to stop at a flea market in a dusty town full of cactuses and oversized aloe vera plants. “It’s one of the top-ten flea
“It might not be helpful but it’s certainly relevant, John ,” she said.
“Take a right,” I said.
“That means left,” Elise said. “Jess has a one hundred percent inaccuracy rate.”
“That’s true,” I said. “I do.”
He took a left and drove a ways and then a ways farther. He was searching for a place to turn around when we saw it. The gas station sat by itself, weeds growing up through chunks of concrete. There were bars on the windows and the advertisements were all in Spanish. It was hard to believe that there was any need for a gas station out here.
“I bet the bathroom’s on the outside,” Elise said. “I hate when it’s on the outside.”
“I like those enormous keys,” I said.
Our father went inside to pay—the pumps didn’t take credit cards—and the three of us followed him. Two men stood in front of a fireplace, smoking and drinking coffee. It was like we’d walked into their living room. They stopped talking and one of them pointed to the right back corner.
Elise tried the knob and it opened, felt around for the light. She shut the door, but then she opened it and pulled me inside with her.
“I think it’s a front,” she said. “There wasn’t much for sale.”
“Gas is for sale,” I said.
“It’s a front,” she said, “trust me. I know one when I see one.”
The bottle of soap had been diluted to a thin pink liquid. I pumped some into my hands and held them under the water while Elise squatted over the toilet. There wasn’t a mirror. There wasn’t even the outline of a place a mirror had been.
“I hate traveling,” she said. “People think it’s so fun to be uncomfortable but it’s not fun. I’m not feeling challenged . I’m not learning anything.”
“Who thinks it’s fun to be uncomfortable?”
“Oh you know, traveler types. On the upside, at least my period won’t be making a surprise appearance.”
“That’s not funny.”
“You’re right,” she said. “It’s not funny. It’s not funny at all. Hand me a paper towel, this toilet paper is wet.”
Our mother and father were waiting when we opened the door.
“Use the paper towels,” I said.
Elise told the men that the bathroom needed toilet paper and they nodded slowly. We debated over popsicles, deciding coconut would make us feel like we were on vacation. We opened the wrappers and placed them on the counter, ate them while checking out the bricks of beige candy, bags of chips with crazy fonts. I picked up a thick bar with almonds on top and Elise took it out of my hand and put it back.
“Mexican candy isn’t any good,” she said. “It just tastes like sugar.”
“I like sugar.”
“It tastes like stale old sugar. Let’s look at the shirts.”
We flipped through a rack of oversized t-shirts in thick, scratchy cotton until Elise noticed a stack of cowboy boots in a corner.
“Dude,” she said. “I can feel it. It’s my lucky day.”
She sorted through the boxes until she found a pair of bright blue boots in her size. She held her popsicle between her teeth as she slipped one on. “A little big,” she said, turning her foot this way and that. She put her hands on her hips. “What do you think?”
“They make your legs look good.”
“They do, don’t they?” she said, kicking a Styrofoam cooler.
Our father came out of the bathroom and I waved. When I saw him in public, even at an empty gas station in the middle of nowhere, I liked him better. I thought about these men treating him unkindly or laughing at him and it hurt my feelings.
Elise put her flip-flops in the box and placed it next to our popsicle wrappers, and our father paid without comment. Once we were in the car, I wished I’d gotten a pair so we would be wearing the same thing, but I hadn’t even checked to see if they’d had my size.
Our mother wanted to stop at a flea market in a dusty town full of cactuses and oversized aloe vera plants. “It’s one of the top-ten flea
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