Tales From the Gas Station 2

by Jack Townsend

  “Huh,” Jerry said. “That’s a good question.”

  The burning, skeletal remains of the homeless man moved. He stepped forward and punched the door with his boney fist, smashing a hole in the glass large enough to reach through. He leaned forward and grabbed at me, laughing loudly and victoriously, all inside my head.

  Jerry wasted no time reacting, shoving the end of his stick through the hole and into the burning man’s face hard enough to knock him onto his back. There he stayed until the fire had burned out.

  I watched the corpse burn as the sound of sirens grew louder and closer. I watched him as O’Brien’s car screeched to a stop nearby. I watched him until finally, she grabbed my face with both hands and turned it away.

  ***

  I made myself a fresh cup of coffee and sat in the passenger seat of O’Brien’s car while the coroner and crime scene techs did their jobs. Jerry was lying down on a long towel in the back seat. O’Brien sat in the driver seat, looking at me. She waited until I’d had a couple sips of caffeine before starting her questions.

  Once again, I didn’t have much to offer. The whole thing happened so fast. It was one of those classic cases of crazy forest man grinding squirrels to feed to the unspecified cosmic creature inside the gas station. Apparently, he would rather drink gasoline and self-immolate than be locked outside in the cold. Or maybe it was the sight of Jerry’s bare ass that drove him over the edge. Who knows?

  “What did he look like?” she asked.

  Jerry took this one for me. “Older guy, late seventies or eighties, Caucasian, five-foot-twelve, thick beard, poor-boy skinny, white hair, big nose, cool hat.”

  She wrote it all down in her notepad, then asked me directly, “You said something over the phone, right before we got disconnected.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah, you told me there was something ‘weird about him.’ Something you thought I should know. Do you remember saying that?”

  “Honestly, I’m still in a fog. I barely remember anything.”

  She closed her notepad and put it in her shirt pocket, then said, “Take your time. If you remember what it was, let me know. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  She opened her door and left to join the others outside while we waited in the warmth of the car.

  I felt guilty for lying to her, but I knew the truth wouldn’t have helped anyone. Of course I remembered what I was going to say to her on the phone. The weird thing about the old hobo. The first thing I noticed when he approached the front of the gas station. Those two, weird, matching moles on the side of his cheek.

  They looked like they were staring at me.

  Like shark eyes. Or doll eyes.

  Chapter Eleven

  The owners were not happy. They put up a fuss, made some angry phone calls, and even threatened to get lawyers involved, but in the end they didn’t have a say in the matter. The sheriff ordered the business to stay closed until they had time to conduct a “proper” investigation.

  The body of the burned man was never identified. Coincidentally, Calvin Ambrose was never found. A tow truck impounded his Mercedes, and a new missing person flyer was printed out for the notice board. Just like that, he joined the ranks of the countless other employees who left without so much as a goodbye.

  I didn’t have any plans for my unexpected day off. I didn’t have any plans for any day off. In case it wasn’t already obvious, I’ve never been the kind of guy to have plans. If I were able to sleep, I probably would have crawled into a bed and stayed there until it was time to go back to work.

  Instead, I spent the time searching for an adequate distraction. I picked up a new book, but the memory of that day’s events was holding me hostage. I read the first chapter three times in a row without absorbing a single word before calling it quits and putting it back on the shelf.

  When dinner time rolled around, I decided I should do something about it. I wasn’t exactly hungry (something about witnessing a violent death right in front of me always kills my appetite), but I knew that at my weight, skipping meals was dangerous. I still had the mental wherewithal to know that I was messed up and shouldn’t be anywhere near sharp objects or open flames, so I played it safe and ordered a pizza.

  The delivery guy showed up half an hour later looking strangely nervous. I didn’t think anything was too unusual about the way he was sweating or how his eyes were darting from side to side. In this town, his was a dangerous profession. It wasn’t until I tried to pay him and he refused my money that I started to suspect something was wrong.

  I should have known from the way he was acting that the order wasn’t going to be right. I asked for a medium, thin-crust pizza topped with pepperoni and feta. I checked the box as soon as the driver left. Sure enough, it wasn’t even close. The only things in there were a handgun and a white envelope.

  I went to the kitchen and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then came back to the living room, where I sat down in front of the pizza box, ate my meal, and wondered how I might have accidentally ended up on the receiving end of an arms deal.

  This gun wasn’t meant for me. Someone’s probably waiting for it. Someone who will likely be upset when they don’t get it.

  I concluded that the pizza delivery guy must have been the world’s worst gun runner, and when I heard the knock at the door a few minutes later, I was convinced that it would be him, ready to apologize and ask for the box back. I was prepared to return it, but not until he went and found my food.

  “Just a second!” I yelled from the couch as I grabbed a single crutch and pulled myself to my feet (or rather, foot). It was a strange feeling, but once I was standing, I felt lighter, more mobile than I had been in a long time. I reached for my second crutch but stopped and wondered if it was even necessary.

  I took a few steps with the single crutch and realized that without the bulky cast in the way, I could get around just fine single-handed now.

  Interesting.

  As I made my way to the front door, I felt like a kid riding a bike without training wheels for the first time. I was excited, but fully aware that I could mess up and hurt myself at any second. For now, though, I was keeping my balance just fine. It wasn’t until I opened the door that I nearly fell over.

  “Hey, bro,” said Jerry.

  He was standing there with a black graphic t-shirt that read “Do Crime, Y’all” over a picture of Winnie the Pooh, and he had a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

  “Hi. Also, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I was just in the area. Is this a bad time? I can come back later.”

  “You were just ‘in the area’? Why?”

  “Because I knew you lived here, and I wanted to check in and see how you were doing after the whole… ya know...”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  For some reason he whispered this next part, like it was our little secret. “...barbeque-man incident.”

  “Don’t mention it. And I mean that. Please, don’t mention it. Between it and Tony and the leg thing, I’ve pretty much got post-traumatic as my new default setting.”

  “Ah, good.”

  “No. Not really. Not at all. What?”

  “Well if you’re not doing anything important, I brought some booze and video games.”

  “Wait. How the hell did you… did you walk all the way here?”

  He laughed and said, “No, of course not. I’m not crazy. I hitchhiked.”

  I took a step back and opened the door wider, “Come on in, I guess.”

  He walked past me, stopped in the middle of the living room, and whistled.

  “Man, this place is noice! How many roommates do you have?”

  “It’s just me.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You live here all by yourself?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Wow. I’ll be honest. I expected maybe a single-bedroom apartment or a storage unit with a cot in the corner. I
thought for sure you were going to be a disgusting hoarder. Like, for real, I was convinced you lived in a shithole. I never would have thought you had a house as nice as this. No offense.”

  Sometimes I wonder if people even know what that expression means.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “It’s big. Not as big as mine of course, but way bigger than I was expecting. How’d you swing this on a gas station salary?”

  I gave him the short version of the answer. “My foster mother’s parents left it to us. Technically, I share the house with my foster brothers and sisters, but all of them were smart enough to get out of town a long time ago.”

  “You have a family?” He sounded a little too surprised.

  “Something like that.”

  “Oh shit! Is that pizza?”

  He dropped his duffle bag, opened the pizza box, and let out a disappointed, “Aww.”

  “I know!” I said, closing and locking the door behind me. “I think somebody somewhere is just as let down as I am, except they have my pizza. And they might be in danger.”

  “Did you read the letter yet?” he asked.

  “No. Why would I?”

  “Because it’s addressed to you.”

  Jerry pulled out the envelope and held it out for me to see the words “For Jack’s eyes only!” written across the front in flowery calligraphy.

  “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t notice that. Maybe this wasn’t a mistake.”

  “You should open it.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  ***

  Jack,

  Sorry for the unorthodox delivery. It seems they’re watching the mail at the gas station now. I needed to take precautions to ensure this letter found its way to you. Very sad to hear about your leg, but I guess that’s why you have two of them, isn’t it? (I wouldn’t know. My legs don’t work.)

  It’s been a little while since your last story, and I was beginning to think that maybe it’s time for you to make a sequel. You should get ready, because I think this next part is going to have a lot more action! I don’t know if you still have the gun I sent you, but just to be safe, here’s another.

  No need to thank me. I have plenty more where that came from.

  By the by, Spencer Middleton sure has been quiet lately. I don’t like that. Keep an eye out for him, and don’t let anybody sneak up behind you!

  Stay safe, OP. I love watching you work.

  -Your Biggest Fan

  ***

  I read the whole thing out loud while Jerry played with the gun.

  “I thought I was your biggest fan,” he said, a little down on himself.

  My mind was swimming through questions. “What is this guy’s deal? How did he find out where I lived? How does he know so much about me? Where the hell did my pizza go?”

  Jerry was busy plugging his Nintendo into the television while he answered offhandedly, “Well, he did give you a computer. Those things come preinstalled with a camera, GPS chip, mics, and Wifi. Wouldn’t be hard to adjust those things for nefarious purposes. Not to mention the fact that one hundred percent of the gas station internet filters through the SAT router he gave us, including passwords and porn. I bet he’s been listening to us for months. That’s what I’d do if I were him. Or her. Or it.”

  I went and grabbed my backpack to see if the computer was still in there, but it wasn’t. I’d forgotten it back at the gas station. Probably a good thing. If it were bugged, at least my biggest fan didn’t know we were on to him now.

  A series of realizations took turns punching me in the gut, each one worse than the last. First: Somebody knows all of my online-account passwords. Second: I’m going to have to get a new computer. Third: I can’t use the gas station’s internet anymore. Fourth: There’s something awfully familiar about my biggest fan’s handwriting.

  I dug through my bag until I found what I was looking for—that old wallet-sized photo of me outside the gas station, the one piece of evidence O’Brien rescued from Karl’s trailer. I flipped it over and looked at the flowery handwriting on the back. “Jack. gas station. 8:30 AM Feb 14. Morning shift.” Compared to the handwriting on the letter from my biggest fan, it was obvious right away.

  This was the same person. Hell, it looked like he even used the same pen.

  I experienced epiphany aftershock as another realization crashed into place: My biggest fan has been watching me since way before I ever made a blog.

  Then another: My biggest fan hired Karl to stalk me.

  Then one final realization, worst of all: My biggest fan is a local.

  Jerry pushed a Wiimote into my hand and asked, “Have you ever played Beerio Kart?”

  “Jerry, listen. I want to go check something out, but it might not be legal. There’s a good chance it won’t be all that safe either. If you think it’s a bad idea, I’ll understand and we can stay here and play video games, but something tells me there are answers out there and I’m so tired of not knowing what’s going on.”

  He took the Wiimote out of my hand, tossed it onto the couch, then said in a serious voice, “I’m in. You had me at ‘Jerry, listen.’”

  “That was the first thing I said.”

  “Come on, Jack! Let’s go do some crime!”

  I was already having second thoughts before I got to my car keys and handed them over. By the time we got on the road, I was on the eighth or ninth thoughts. But there was no stopping now. We were on our way to search a dead man’s flop for clues about the person who’d apparently been watching me in secret for years.

  ***

  We pulled up and parked in an empty space a few trailers down from Karl’s place. Jerry killed the engine, then unzipped his duffle bag and pulled out two black ski masks.

  I couldn’t decide which question to ask first: Why do you have two ski masks in the bag you brought with you to play video games? Or: Why are you pulling them out now?

  I combined them both into a simple, “Why, Jerry? Why?”

  “Obviously, so that nobody recognizes us breaking in.”

  “Jerry, I only have one leg.”

  “So?”

  I thought about explaining why a ski mask wouldn’t do much to conceal my identity, but I felt like it would take a lot less effort to just put it on. Besides, it was really cold out, and a ski mask might not be too bad.

  We tried to look as nonchalant as possible, making our way down the road in masks, me limping along with one crutch and Jerry kindly doing a slow-motion walk to match my pace.

  To our surprise, the front door was unlocked. That worked out well because I didn’t have a plan in place for breaking in, and knowing Jerry, he probably would have kicked the door down (there was a small chance he still might before the night was over).

  I locked the door behind us and took in the horrible prison Karl had built for himself. It looked like everything of value had already hit Craigslist or a pawn shop. The living room was almost completely empty. No decorations. No television. No real furniture, save for a folding chair and patio table set up in the center of the room. Judging from the mystery stains on the walls and carpet, this must have been where he ate all of his meals.

  “See, this is more like what I was expecting from your place. No offense.”

  The smell of death and decay had already expanded to fill every cubic inch of stagnant air, and I could only imagine how much worse it would have been if it weren’t freezing cold in there.

  The kitchen and laundry room were to our left. The bedrooms were to our right. Considering the fact that he had unhanded himself in the kitchen, I assumed the worst of the smells were wafting from that direction, so we went right.

  “Alrighty,” said my partner-in-crime as he rolled his mask up into a cap. “What are we stealing first?”

  I pulled up my own ski mask and said, “We’re not stealing anything. We’re looking for any clues that can tell us who hired Karl to break into my place.”

  “The guy who lives here tried to break into your house?
What a fucking asshole.”

  “Lived here. He’s dead now.”

  “Good. That’s what he gets. Thieving bastard.”

  “Keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary.”

  The first door we opened was to Karl’s bedroom. Not much here but a half-deflated air mattress in the corner, a scuffed-up dresser covered with pipes and needles, piles of dirty clothes, and a rickety shelf full of books. I instinctively gravitated towards the books while Jerry wandered down the hall in search of the bathroom.

  The titles of the tomes told a sad story all on their own. They were mostly self-help books, most dedicated to overcoming addiction. I pulled out the one with the most spine damage and read the summary on the back. This one was of a different nature—Taking Charge: How to Break Free from an Abusive Relationship. There were a few dog-eared pages and notes in the margins.

  Before I moved on, something else on the shelf caught my eye. A clean, crisp hardcover entitled, “The Beginner’s Guide to Ventriloquism.”

  I’d told Jerry to be on the lookout for anything out of place, and this certainly fit the description. Karl wasn’t the sort to engage in hobbies. There was only one reasonable explanation. This was a fake book hidden in plain sight, probably hollowed out and filled with his stash or some other kind of secrets.

  Man, I thought. I would make a pretty good detective.

  I checked for booby traps, pulled it out, and flipped it open... only to find that it was, in fact, an actual book about ventriloquism.

  Man, I would make a terrible detective.

  The next place I looked was the underwear drawer. It was still there in the corner, just like O’Brien said—a pocket-sized Moleskin notebook. I pulled out the dead man’s journal and flipped through to the most recent entry.

  “Today’s the day I’m going to stand up to him. If I don’t make it out alive, let this serve as my final will and testament. I don’t have anything left to give but the truth, and whoever finds this needs to know that for the last year, I’ve had a monster for a roommate. He’s made me do things I don’t deserve to be forgiven for. I think he’s asleep for now. I know I can’t kill him. I doubt he can even die. But there is one thing I can do. I can stop him from using me anymore.”