Based on the song "Life on Mars" by David Bowie...
Someone is killing girls in the little town of Nowhere, South Dakota and they all look like Fiona Mars.
Fiona has a secret she can't quite remember. A secret her father, the Sheriff, is trying hard...
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A cigarette vending machine in Rick's Roadhouse kept the Jukebox company. They sat together in the corner, empty pockets waiting for a nickel or a dollar. The Jukebox played sad songs on command, and nobody bothered her because she didn't know anything different. If she did play, it was the house that asked. The cigarettes, on the other hand, they got the most use. Just not from me.
Across the room, the vending machine was nothing special. A lump of brown on more brown that crawled up the walls as wood panels. The metal was scratched, and the corners dinged, brand names faded.
I finished my grilled cheese and watched him approach the corner. He wasn't looking for a song. Instead, he fished a few coins from his jeans and hovered over the cigarettes. He did it carefully, like every carton inside was a bird about to take flight, and slid the money into a waiting slot. He didn't belong in a truck stop. He was a piece of the outdoors; windburned cheekbones and short hair that laid every which way in a golden-brown tussle. His A1 bomber jacket was soft at the shoulders and elbows from hours as a second skin. His boots didn't track in cow shit because they had sand.
He came to Nowhere that summer. Sweeping in on a northbound breeze, pulling the scent of cheap gasoline and open road with him; on stage the moment he set a foot through the door. He wasn't local. I didn't know him or his name. But he smoked Lucky Strikes (my brand before I'd gone contrary) and that seemed a personal invitation.
I followed him onto the porch.
"Need a light?"
The porch rail faced the empty interstate, a flat and unhappy road sticky in the sun. He turned at the sound of my voice. His fingers tapped a new cigarette against the box.
I clicked the lighter I'd stolen from my dad, a silver one. Lucky bent his face close to my fingers. He cupped his hands around my flame and the world, for a moment, was an outsider.
I flicked the lid closed.
"Thanks," he said. The way he held his mouth and looked at me—his eyes slightly creased, the lines like score marks in the corners above his round cheekbones—he knew just how handsome he was.
He gestured a hand toward my shirt. "Mickey Mouse, eh?"
"Fucking fascist cow."
He laughed and offered me a cigarette.
I raised a hand. "I'm clean."
"Smart girl. It'll kill you."
He eyed me, curious. The few freckles on his nose peeped out from behind peels of sunburnt skin.
He drove with the windows down.
"What is there to do in Nowhere South Dakota?"
"Wanna see a movie?" I said.
I let him pay so I could get in. And then I left him when he went for snacks and found a quiet spot to hide for awhile.
