White Dwarf | 6. Access Denied

Shafto loved my younger cousin. She would be there any time we’d go over to her parents’ for a holiday meal and his eyes would light up the moment he saw her. Thanksgiving dinner had come and gone, and I found a picture Shafto had taken of my cousin’s butt while she was lying on the floor watching television. The sick fuck didn’t treat anyone with any dignity—not even people with whom he was infatuated. It was her dad, not Shafto, who I called when my car slid in the snow and hit the stone-covered exterior of the gas station one night. He drove all the way down to the city to pick me up, took me all the way out to my home in the country and then drove all the way back to his home on the icy roads. Not once did he complain about it.

Shafto, of course, tried to make up for that oversight on my Uncle’s part, “whut the hell happened?”

That was my pleasant greeting as I entered the back of the house, through the laundry room which doubled as Shafto’s “office.” He had an old yellow desk setup in the corner with an adding machine sitting on it. He used it to calculate the weekly cost of keeping me alive—he even included his estimate of the kilowatt hours of energy needed to sustain my computer habit. He saved the paper printouts of the meaningless numbers and would use that as evidence of my worthlessness.

“I have nothing to say to you. Don’t bother me.”

I tried to make my way through the doorway of the laundry room into the hallway that led to my bedroom. Shafto jammed his arm across the doorway, arring my exit. He stood there in nothing but a cotton t-shirt, briefs and his dog-tags dangling from a chain around his neck. I fantasized about strangling him with that chain.

“Answer me, BOY!”

Oh, how he loved that phrase, “I slid on some ice and my car hit the gas station. There’s a dent in the front right. It’s stuck in the snow. Nothing major.”

He looked at me with indignation, his small mind searching for any way it could find to use this as further evidence that my mother had made the most colossal of all mistakes by failing to get an abortion when I was conceived.

“That wouldn’a happened if you’d been payin’ attention!”

“Hell, why stop there? It probably wouldn’t even be snowing if it wasn’t for me.” Jesus, are you really this stupid? Do you think I wanted to get stuck?

He glared at me, “Get your ass in bed. We’ll talk about this in the mornin’.”

I closed the door to Shafto and the rest of the house. It stunk of grey death to me. I fished out my aluminum can and put a lump of smoke in it. I lit my orange Bic lighter and held the flame to the mound of pot, inhaling deeply. Quietly, the black shade came—that patch of shadow that crept inward from the periphery of my vision in rhythm to my heartbeat. I plopped down on my bed, collecting pillows I had tossed to the floor during my restless sleep the night before. I pulled the blankets and sheets around me like an exhausted rat and slowly sank into blissful unconsciousness.

Slowly, awareness inched back into me. The room was chilled, as I usually left the window open a bit to keep the smell of pot to a minimum. I was dimly aware of having been awakened by a strange sound. Still somewhat confused with a pot hangover, I turned my head toward the window and saw it was morning. Shafto was standing outside, his greasy yellow “Caterpillar” hat in one hand. He had his face pressed against the screen, his grey moldy beard hairs poking through. He was looking intently from one end of my room to the other. A shot of adrenaline rushed through my body, reviving me fully.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Shafto laughed nervously, “I wuz lookin’ for Soan. I can’t find ‘er anywhere.”

Sung was my mother’s Siamese cat. Shafto didn’t know how to pronounce her name.

“She isn’t in here.”

“Well, I didn’t think so. She’s probably in bed with your mom.”

“Yeah,” I can’t imagine why you’d look there.. just because that’s where she always is. What is he really doing?

The ride to the gas station was as bad as I had expected, but for different reasons. Shafto had decided to put on his conciliatory face. He strained to produce a quality of voice that sounded artificially tender and caring, “Look. I know we ain’t gettin’ along. I jus’ wan’ed to tell you, if you wan’ ta talk sometime… we can go for a hike up on your great-gran’ma’s hill and jus’ talk. Jus’ you an’ me.”

My skin crawled. I looked at him with the deepest hatred I could squeeze out of my soul. That filthy yellow cap, those stupid big ears, that nasty beard—Christ knows what lived in it—and that signature Pall-Mall cigarette. I remembered the rifle that night in Travis’ car. I knew what he was getting at. He wanted to get me alone in those woods—those thick, dark, never-ending woods and I would never come back alive. That conniving piece of shit. If I had been born female, none of this would even be happening. Of course, the alternate hell would be far worse. He hated me because I wasn’t his daughter. He hated me because I wasn’t my cousin. You’re nothing more than an amoeba to me. I can see straight through you. I see that black greasy stain you think is a soul.

The rest of the drive was silent, with the exception of the country music oozing obnoxiously out of the radio. I thought of any way at all out of the situation. I had to get away from him. If I didn’t, one of us was going to end up dead. I thought about ways to get him. I thought about putting LSD in his tea pitcher—he drank gallons of it a day. He would go mad. His simple mind wouldn’t be able to comprehend what was happening to it. The panic, the sheer terror of the experience would overload whatever delicate synaptic connections he had managed to develop in his useless forty-three years on Earth. He might kill himself. It was even more likely he’d kill me, my mother and her cat. I closed my eyes, rubbing the lids with my hand. Is this what I had been reduced to? Surely this was the kind of thought echoing through the chasm Shafto had for a skull. I just wanted out and I didn’t care how. I needed more money so I could get out of that place.

Evidently, nobody was having a good day. Luckily, I had thought to leave the keys to the car locked in the office, sitting in the center of the desk. Ted and Daryl and Daryl had to move it so the gas truck could pull into the gravel lot and fill up the underground tanks—a process that had been described to me but I had never seen. It was an hour or so before the night shift officially began. I wasn’t in the mood to sit around dealing with those two idiots, so I offered to take over for Ted, deciding he was the greater of two evils. This would also give me the opportunity to attempt to pry some information from Daryl and Daryl. I was somewhat curious if he was mildly retarded. The only things I’d ever heard him speak were random dollar amounts when reporting the amount of his wad to Ted and…

“Maggots!” Daryl and Daryl beat his fist on the desk as he rose to attend to the customer who had just pulled in.

Longingly, I eyed the “KEEP OUT!” sign hanging on the door leading into the back room. I would be mad to go smoke pot back there while Daryl and Daryl was there. Still, he didn’t seem too bright. I doubted he would even know what the weird smell was. I’d have a cigarette burning in the ashtray. With the ashtray sitting on the desk, it would probably overwhelm his sense of smell enough to provide me some cover.

I grabbed a can out of “Ted’s Aluminum Can Jew Box” and flattened one side as best I could. I made a dent in the center of the flattened metal with my thumb. I grabbed a pen and, keeping an eye on Daryl and Daryl outside, punctured several holes in the dent. I ran to the back room with the can and loaded it with pot. I hid the can inside a wooden box that held the plastic numbers we used to display our prices on the canopy sign.

Calmly, I walked back out to the office, closing the “KEEP OUT!” door behind me. I’d wait until Daryl and Daryl’s next car before lighting up to ensure I wouldn’t be caught.

Daryl and Daryl came back inside with a credit card, “Fuckin’ maggots!”

He shoved the plastic Phillips 66 card into the manual credit card machine, set the amount and loaded a carbon. He grabbed the slider and violently rammed it over to the right and then back, making an imprint of the card on the carbon paper. He huffed back outside, angrily scribbling amounts and license numbers.

Eventually, Daryl and Daryl dispensed with the customer and came back inside, plopping down comfortably into Ted’s chair. I had assumed Daryl and Daryl’s usual position at the side of the desk. Poor Daryl and Daryl, having to sit in this metal chair all the time. No wonder he was always in such a foul mood.

“So. You’re engaged to Cheryl?”

“Yeah.”

It was like trying to break into Fort Knox.

“Cool. Where’d you meet her?”

“Church.”

“Cool.”

“So, you went to high school in Platte City?”

“Yeah.”

I tried to think of another question but realized it was pointless. I concluded that Daryl and Daryl was actually retarded—in some sense of the word. The details no longer seemed interesting and I spent the rest of the hour handling my customers and sneaking hits off the aluminum can until Josh’s glossy blue Fairlane pulled in.

Josh slipped quietly into the office. His face and hair were bloated, his eyes red and his complexion had the same ashen tone as Shafto’s.

“Hey, dude, what’s up?”

Josh put his hand on his stomach, “Ugh.”

His affability seemed to have ended up in the toilet with whatever had been in his stomach.

“That bad, eh?”

“I haven’t drank that much in my life.”

“I got a bowl going in the back… in the number box. Go take a couple of hits.”

“Dude, you’ve been smoking with Daryl and Daryl?”

“He’s a dumb-ass.”

“Dude, that’s crazy.”

Josh didn’t hesitate in stepping into the asylum with me. He scurried into the back room and took a few hits. His voice took on a somewhat brighter tone, “That’s better but my head’s still all messed up.”

He came back into the office and sat down on the safe.

“Sorry, dude, I don’t have anything for that,” I shrugged.

“I do.” He pulled out a sheet of acid and dropped four squares on his tongue.

“That’s not gonna do anything but piss you off more. You’ve been tripping the last three days, man.”

“It’ll work, dude.”

It didn’t.

Josh’s first car of the shift was Johnny Gladstone, of Gladstone Plumbing. They had an account with us, which meant they had a dedicated receipt book in the top drawer of the desk. Whenever a blue Gladstone Plumbing van came in, we filled in the gallons, gas subtotal, and subtotals for whatever else they bought. Every month, Johnny Gladstone would come in to settle the account with Ted. While he was there, he’d take the opportunity to report any abuses he felt he suffered at the merciless hands of the night shift. The abuses were many—everything from not doing windshields to copping an attitude about checking oil or tires, to overfilling some fluid or doing drug deals. Ted would write (or the closest thing to it he was capable of) down each complaint and turn them over to Lee who, I imagined, tossed them in the trash on his way to the golf course. That would be the last anyone would ever see or hear of the complaints.

Johnny Gladstone was cursing as he entered the front door, passing Josh on his way out to fill up the van, “do the Goddamn win’shield this time! Goddamn kids!”

I got up and lunged outside to do the windshield while Josh started the gas. I’d rather freeze to death with a hung-over acid-head than sit inside and listen to Johnny’s toasty warm insults. Johnny sat on the desk and lit up a cigarette, shaking his head disapprovingly at us while we toiled away on the blue van. Josh looked as though he was turning a subtle shade of green.

“Dude, you don’t look so good.”

“This sucks.”

Josh always smiled. I hadn’t seen him smile once thus far. His high-top sneakers were untied and flared open at the ends. He had a couple of layers of jackets on and the outer one had a hood that was twisted around itself. He stood holding the gas nozzle at full speed. When the pump clicked, a large wave of gasoline splashed back out of the tank and soaked his right arm.

We finished the van and took the receipt book inside to get Johnny’s signature. We sat around the office dissociated while he hurled a stream of insults at us. Finally, he left and the blue van topped with various diameters of PVC pipe drove off behind the snow-covered trees.

Josh’s condition only worsened as the acid slowly started to heat up enough to begin to fry his brain. He folded his arms on the desk and laid his head there. I’d have to prod him any time he got a car. If I was already outside getting one and another pulled in, I just went ahead and did them both. It was easier than nursing Josh.

Then the rush started. We were standing on the near island, both filling up a car. I was leaning against the Premium Unleaded pump and Josh had just started a middle-aged woman. He went and grabbed the squeegee and started cleaning the window. I noticed the scent of gasoline—stronger than usual. Then I noticed a splattering sound over the churning and whirring of the pumps. I looked down and saw a growing pool of red snow. Josh had not put the nozzle in the gas tank. The car was of the variety where the tank was filled from behind the license plate. Josh had just shoved the pump in and thought he had gotten it in the tank, but he ended up just sticking it in empty space. There was five dollars of gasoline on the ground. I pulled the lever on the nozzle so it would stop and motioned for Josh.

“Oh fuck!” He said quietly. He took the nozzle, inserted it into the tank, and started it going again. He charged the woman for all of the gas, even the five dollars he had put in the snow. She didn’t seem to notice and drove away in blissful ignorance.

With each car that pulled in, Josh grew more frustrated. “Fucking customers!”

I expected him to start yelling out, “Maggots!” at any minute.

I’m not sure if it was the acid having some small effect on him or if it was the sheer desperation of his condition, but Josh had evidently had enough and wasn’t going to take any more. He went into the back room and retrieved a garden hose. He screwed one end onto the water faucet outside—the one we used for filling radiators and cleaning the lanes in the warmer months. He turned the faucet on full blast and began hosing down both entrances into the station.

“Dude, what the fuck?” I chuckled.

“I’m sick of these fucking customers, dude! I’m sick!”

Josh stood there for ten minutes with water spewing out of the hose and rushing down the north entrance into the station. Once he grew tired of standing outside playing in the water, he tossed the hose down on the ground and left it running while he came inside to warm up. I let it run, mostly curious to see if his idea would work. Cars continued pulling in and out, tracking water all over the north entrance. It was thoroughly soaked, but I couldn’t tell if it was freezing. Whatever snow that hadn’t been disturbed by cars turned into slush.

It didn’t seem to impede the customers. We let the water run until 8:15pm. That was the final straw for Josh and he moved the hands of the clock ahead forty-five minutes and turned the closed sign. I sent him home and brought everything inside.

The next afternoon, I got to work and found Daryl and Daryl’s car parked in the usual spot, but with a large dent near the rear of the passenger’s side. Interesting.

“Dude, what’s up with your car?”

Daryl and Daryl scowled, “I skidded on some ice when I pulled in to work this morning.”

I was shocked he had managed to glue more than two words together into a coherent expression of English.

Ted shook his head in contrived empathy for his future son-in-law, “Skidded into one of the support beams out there.”

My stomach knotted and my face reddened as I attempted to contain the laugh trying to force its way out like something out of the “Exorcist.” I faked a cough that came out sounding like someone who had just taken a scorching hit off of a joint. The realization made me want to giggle even more.

Then it occurred to me. Pot. That was my ticket out. Josh sold tons of acid every night—the same kids would buy even more pot. Acid was something you did once in a while—unless you were Josh or his coworker—unlike pot, which was a drug we all used every waking hour. I knew Bunt had a friend who would be able to supply quarter, half and full pounds of high-quality smoke consistently and for an extremely low price. I could make a killing. I smiled—even beamed—as the realization soaked into the core of my consciousness… as far as I was concerned, Shafto would no longer exist.

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