pine tree air freshener at him and Nick acknowledged the request with a thumbs up.
As Nick approached the door, he noticed the old man’s arms were covered in open wounds, oozing an infectious combination of blood and pus. The man wore stained, torn pants, and an equally dirty tank top that was all but thread-bare and appeared to have become one with the man’s skin in a few places. The signature flannel shirt wasn’t missing, Nick noted, but wadded up in the man’s lap, wet from sweat or pus, or a combination of the two. The man absently scratched at his arm as he looked up at Nick, one eye swollen shut by a bruise, which may have started as a wound similar to those on his arms but had definitely progressed into another abscess.
“They knew. They knew it would happen.” The man wiped an infection-smeared hand across his face and swatted at something in the air. “Weren’t no accident. Don’t care. Never cared. Did it on purpose. Can’t find Sam-Dog either. Probably a Greener now. You seen Sam-Dog?”
The old man sneered at Nick and waited for a response. His lip curled and showed off a checkerboard smile--dark recesses of missing teeth were neighbored by unhealthy, tobacco-stained nubs that hung precariously, waiting to fall away from the inflamed gums, which fought to support them. “No matter. You see him, you do what’s right and put him down. You’re not one of them. No suit. No safety. Hey, where’s your hat, boy?”
Nick opened his mouth to speak but decided against it. Other than Jerry’s truck, the parking lot held an older pickup truck, a dirty but newer model blue Taurus, and a classic Schwinn bicycle held together by duct tape--a canvas bag hanging off the bent handlebars. He decided the bike fit the baffling curmudgeon best and pushed the door open to distance himself from the obviously sick man.
Inside it was cooler and Nick was impressed the little roadside station would have air conditioning. His momentary respect for the place quickly dissolved when he noticed the windows were nailed shut and fly-strips were hung like forgotten Christmas decorations. He looked across the top of the low shelving units, located the soda, and walked to the back cooler to grab three Cokes. A reflection in the door caught his attention as the glass swung shut again.
Nick turned toward the woman and child in the next aisle, his brows gathering in confusion. What planet had he and the boys driven in to? It was easily eighty degrees outside and this woman had her child bundled up like it was the middle of winter. The poor kid had to be sweating underneath the full snowsuit, mittens and ski mask. Sure, it was air conditioned in here, but it wasn’t cold.
A glance up at the mother merely provided further confusion. He guessed the woman was somewhere in her late twenties, but she could easily pass as a decade or better older by the haggard features and washed, worn expression. She kept one hand on the faded purple of her daughter’s snowsuit shoulder at all times and constantly scanned the area around her through squinted, discerning lids, as if scoping the joint out in order to snatch expired products from the shelf in a senseless victory against the system. But something in her eyes reminded Nick of fear. Not the fear of being caught or fear of a missed opportunity. Something deeper echoed from the bag-lined blues and heavy sleep-deprived lids. She swatted at the air randomly, further adding to the mystique of the strange inhabitants of the sideshow gas station. Nick shook his head and filed it away, wishing he had brought his camera with him. It wasn’t Pulitzer material, but he was fairly certain any one of the reporters at work could have come up with a decent human-interest story to go along with the photo. He paid for the sodas and headed back to the truck, forgetting about the air freshener.
As the door swung behind him, he heard the old man muttering in the chair outside, “Shame we’re out of strips
As Nick approached the door, he noticed the old man’s arms were covered in open wounds, oozing an infectious combination of blood and pus. The man wore stained, torn pants, and an equally dirty tank top that was all but thread-bare and appeared to have become one with the man’s skin in a few places. The signature flannel shirt wasn’t missing, Nick noted, but wadded up in the man’s lap, wet from sweat or pus, or a combination of the two. The man absently scratched at his arm as he looked up at Nick, one eye swollen shut by a bruise, which may have started as a wound similar to those on his arms but had definitely progressed into another abscess.
“They knew. They knew it would happen.” The man wiped an infection-smeared hand across his face and swatted at something in the air. “Weren’t no accident. Don’t care. Never cared. Did it on purpose. Can’t find Sam-Dog either. Probably a Greener now. You seen Sam-Dog?”
The old man sneered at Nick and waited for a response. His lip curled and showed off a checkerboard smile--dark recesses of missing teeth were neighbored by unhealthy, tobacco-stained nubs that hung precariously, waiting to fall away from the inflamed gums, which fought to support them. “No matter. You see him, you do what’s right and put him down. You’re not one of them. No suit. No safety. Hey, where’s your hat, boy?”
Nick opened his mouth to speak but decided against it. Other than Jerry’s truck, the parking lot held an older pickup truck, a dirty but newer model blue Taurus, and a classic Schwinn bicycle held together by duct tape--a canvas bag hanging off the bent handlebars. He decided the bike fit the baffling curmudgeon best and pushed the door open to distance himself from the obviously sick man.
Inside it was cooler and Nick was impressed the little roadside station would have air conditioning. His momentary respect for the place quickly dissolved when he noticed the windows were nailed shut and fly-strips were hung like forgotten Christmas decorations. He looked across the top of the low shelving units, located the soda, and walked to the back cooler to grab three Cokes. A reflection in the door caught his attention as the glass swung shut again.
Nick turned toward the woman and child in the next aisle, his brows gathering in confusion. What planet had he and the boys driven in to? It was easily eighty degrees outside and this woman had her child bundled up like it was the middle of winter. The poor kid had to be sweating underneath the full snowsuit, mittens and ski mask. Sure, it was air conditioned in here, but it wasn’t cold.
A glance up at the mother merely provided further confusion. He guessed the woman was somewhere in her late twenties, but she could easily pass as a decade or better older by the haggard features and washed, worn expression. She kept one hand on the faded purple of her daughter’s snowsuit shoulder at all times and constantly scanned the area around her through squinted, discerning lids, as if scoping the joint out in order to snatch expired products from the shelf in a senseless victory against the system. But something in her eyes reminded Nick of fear. Not the fear of being caught or fear of a missed opportunity. Something deeper echoed from the bag-lined blues and heavy sleep-deprived lids. She swatted at the air randomly, further adding to the mystique of the strange inhabitants of the sideshow gas station. Nick shook his head and filed it away, wishing he had brought his camera with him. It wasn’t Pulitzer material, but he was fairly certain any one of the reporters at work could have come up with a decent human-interest story to go along with the photo. He paid for the sodas and headed back to the truck, forgetting about the air freshener.
As the door swung behind him, he heard the old man muttering in the chair outside, “Shame we’re out of strips
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