It's a rumbling kind of quiet surrounding you, the kind that makes your ribs hurt and gradually replaces your heartbeat. It's a loaded silence, always; the people who stop by are neither friendly nor understanding. You can't talk, though. You aren't known for your hospitality.
But that's what you get. You get horrible people coming to you, terrible people fighting you. If you hadn't been such a disappointment, then, maybe, you wouldn't have been left here. Maybe you would still have a family. Maybe you would have a home. Maybe.
But you don't. The maybe doesn't matter. Whether you like it or not, you're tethered here by the promises passed down to you. They weigh down your spine, the same vertebrae of your grandfather, as you sweep the floors and set up lazy displays of off-brand soda.
You push your hair out of your face and rest your head on your palm, focusing on the stench of stale coffee.
You're quiet, still, vibrating along with the whirring of the decrepit coffee machine beside you. Even when the bell dings and the door scrapes against the uneven floor of the gas station, your gas station, you remain quiet. Hopefully they won't notice you're here. They do.
"You in charge of this joint?" a man asks, the edges of his teeth a speckled brown from the chewing tobacco you can see hanging from his lip. You don't nod, just straighten your back. He takes that as his answer and walks toward you, his sleeveless flannel sickeningly ragged. "Them gas prices ain't too kind."
The man is not just making conversation. You know what he wants, what he's trying to say. You smile, briefly, at his attempt to barter. You keep an eye on him, on the way his work-boots thunk against the dry linoleum, on how his eyes shift around. His weight makes you uneasy; seven feet of heavyset manliness. Intimidating? Only his stench.
"Maybe," you say, responding in an uninterested tone. Wait, what did he say? "Are you ready to purchase?"
No answer. You swivel your head as he walks to the back, to the refrigerated drinks. He grabs a can of watered-down coffee, a brand you don't care to know the name of, and makes his way back to the sticky counter. You watch him eyeball the cigarettes, then the alcohol, finally landing on the greasy hotdogs rolling on the grill next to you. You sneer.
"I'm thinkin' them prices a bit too high, huh?" His voice holds a false humor, as if he's about to tell a joke knowing full well nobody will laugh. He turns his head and gives you a smile. You remain static in your position behind the register.
"Maybe," you respond, hollowing yourself out at the words you know are coming. "Are you ready to make your purchases?"
He leans on the counter, much too close already. His spit is dirt against his lemon rind teeth. He smiles at you. You look down, a fleeting glance to the pepper spray under the desk.
"Maybe we could, uh-" The man chuckles, reaching one hand up to fix the position of his hat. Your knees move with a slight jerk before straightening. You sigh, closing your eyes for a second to think.
It's Saturday. Saturdays are always like this. Why did there have to be Saturdays every week?
You take a deep breath, visualizing the air exiting through your fingertips. It's okay; everything is alright.
You've survived too many Saturdays to count. You can make it through this one, too. Just remember why you're here.
"I'm thinkin' we could, ah, come to an agreement of sorts." You open your eyes at the sound of his voice, your half-hearted attempt to calm down crushed.
"Maybe," you say. Maybe in your dreams.
You watch his hands, the hairy knuckles resting on the countertop. Filth is left behind in an imprint of the top of his fingers. Disgusting.
