with one of Mike’s pickled eggs and Old Milwaukee farts.” The stench of millions of roadkill worms hung in the air, not necessarily dissipating, but no longer gaining strength through an open window.
“Because I’m a kid at heart?” Scott offered, smirking at Nick before looking out at the black and green highway.
Nick followed Scott’s gaze. A thick layer of splattered insects in various stages of decay coated the asphalt. The black areas represented where the soft carcasses had dried, the greenish smears were fresh--or as fresh as death can smell.
“Because we’re men,” Nick grunted his Tim Allen impersonation. “Men like foul things.”
“Not that foul.” Jerry pulled the plastic off another pine-shaped air freshener and waved it around. “I thought they said they were going to do something about this.”
The sound of the tent worms popping under their tires reminded Nick of a kid playing with bubble wrap. “Yeah, before we left, they said the DNR was coming in to deal with it.”
“Vile things. Sarah’s been bitching all summer ‘cuz they’re eating her cherry tree.” Jerry threw the air freshener onto the dash.
“They covered my shed to the point that it looks like my siding is alive--it moves, it’s freaky looking.” Scott pushed his hand through his thinning hair. “They don’t stink as bad when they’re alive though.” The other two nodded.
“Gas station ahead.” Nick pointed between Scott and Jerry’s heads from the backseat, having kept watch for the next possible stop. “I need to piss.”
“Damn, your bladder gets smaller and smaller with age. You know that?” Jerry glanced at Nick in the rearview mirror.
“Shut it and pull in.”
Jerry snickered as he left the county highway for the gravel parking lot. “Now don’t take forever, I have a lonely wife to get back to and wonderful things to do to her.”
“Damn, man. That’s my sister you’re talking about--I don’t want to hear that!” Nick opened the door as they rolled to a stop and jumped out of the backseat of the quad-cab truck.
In front of the store, an old man regarded him with quiet, ancient eyes as Nick glanced at the battered restroom sign. He pivoted in the gravel toward the side of the building, following the direction of the sign’s arrow, and ignored the silent contempt he imagined in the man’s stare.
Locating the unisex bathroom, he pushed open the dented metal door and reached for the light switch. Dirty florescence bathed the unwashed room and Nick took in the disgusting ambiance. The dirt-coated floor, smeared from shuffling feet, was an unhealthy color he equated to the stains inside the cracked porcelain of the toilet bowl. Beneath the dirt, the cement floor had been painted the same color as the lower half of the walls--a muddy brown with a random pattern of darker splotches. The color rose up the wall like bile to abut an out of place chair rail, separating it from the filthy, off-white, top-half of the room. Where the stains of rust hadn’t grown across it like red algae, the outdated sink, yellowed with age and neglect, perfectly matched the lighter color of the bathroom wall. Nick wondered whether the color combination had been on purpose, and how much of the darker speckles were from design rather than lack of maintenance. He looked up at the weak overhead light, wondering if a colored bug-bulb gave the bathroom its ironic excremental hues. Instead, he saw several dozen fly-strips hanging from the ceiling around the uncovered white florescent tube.
“Damn,” he grimaced at the black bodies covering the sticky amber strips by the hundreds. “Clean the bathroom and maybe you wouldn’t have this problem.” Nick wished his journalistic mind didn’t always have to absorb every detail and quickly used the facilities without touching anything beyond the doorknob.
Out front again, he waved at the guys in the truck and motioned he was grabbing a drink from inside, Jerry waved the
“Because I’m a kid at heart?” Scott offered, smirking at Nick before looking out at the black and green highway.
Nick followed Scott’s gaze. A thick layer of splattered insects in various stages of decay coated the asphalt. The black areas represented where the soft carcasses had dried, the greenish smears were fresh--or as fresh as death can smell.
“Because we’re men,” Nick grunted his Tim Allen impersonation. “Men like foul things.”
“Not that foul.” Jerry pulled the plastic off another pine-shaped air freshener and waved it around. “I thought they said they were going to do something about this.”
The sound of the tent worms popping under their tires reminded Nick of a kid playing with bubble wrap. “Yeah, before we left, they said the DNR was coming in to deal with it.”
“Vile things. Sarah’s been bitching all summer ‘cuz they’re eating her cherry tree.” Jerry threw the air freshener onto the dash.
“They covered my shed to the point that it looks like my siding is alive--it moves, it’s freaky looking.” Scott pushed his hand through his thinning hair. “They don’t stink as bad when they’re alive though.” The other two nodded.
“Gas station ahead.” Nick pointed between Scott and Jerry’s heads from the backseat, having kept watch for the next possible stop. “I need to piss.”
“Damn, your bladder gets smaller and smaller with age. You know that?” Jerry glanced at Nick in the rearview mirror.
“Shut it and pull in.”
Jerry snickered as he left the county highway for the gravel parking lot. “Now don’t take forever, I have a lonely wife to get back to and wonderful things to do to her.”
“Damn, man. That’s my sister you’re talking about--I don’t want to hear that!” Nick opened the door as they rolled to a stop and jumped out of the backseat of the quad-cab truck.
In front of the store, an old man regarded him with quiet, ancient eyes as Nick glanced at the battered restroom sign. He pivoted in the gravel toward the side of the building, following the direction of the sign’s arrow, and ignored the silent contempt he imagined in the man’s stare.
Locating the unisex bathroom, he pushed open the dented metal door and reached for the light switch. Dirty florescence bathed the unwashed room and Nick took in the disgusting ambiance. The dirt-coated floor, smeared from shuffling feet, was an unhealthy color he equated to the stains inside the cracked porcelain of the toilet bowl. Beneath the dirt, the cement floor had been painted the same color as the lower half of the walls--a muddy brown with a random pattern of darker splotches. The color rose up the wall like bile to abut an out of place chair rail, separating it from the filthy, off-white, top-half of the room. Where the stains of rust hadn’t grown across it like red algae, the outdated sink, yellowed with age and neglect, perfectly matched the lighter color of the bathroom wall. Nick wondered whether the color combination had been on purpose, and how much of the darker speckles were from design rather than lack of maintenance. He looked up at the weak overhead light, wondering if a colored bug-bulb gave the bathroom its ironic excremental hues. Instead, he saw several dozen fly-strips hanging from the ceiling around the uncovered white florescent tube.
“Damn,” he grimaced at the black bodies covering the sticky amber strips by the hundreds. “Clean the bathroom and maybe you wouldn’t have this problem.” Nick wished his journalistic mind didn’t always have to absorb every detail and quickly used the facilities without touching anything beyond the doorknob.
Out front again, he waved at the guys in the truck and motioned he was grabbing a drink from inside, Jerry waved the
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