7.
 The gas station was in a valley—canyon, they called it here—deep in the folds of some pine-stubbled mountains. The rock faces up around looked blue and hard. It was cold down here, a dry cold. Antonio owned the station, where two skinny blond mechanics in their 20's, in blue jumpsuits, smeared with oil—labored over Cougar's cars. Cougar was the nearby town, Antonio said, named after the Mountain Lions who still today roamed about. "When was the last time you ate?"
"I—."
"God dammit, never mind." Antonio went into the cashier's office, where a young woman looked up from a magazine. "Maria. Ring up a sandwich and an orange juice," he instructed. The woman, who wore glasses and no makeup, moved gently. She had soft fingers, moving on the cash register keys. Antonio reached into one of the deli cases and took out a prefab sandwich and a plastic container. "You go wash up now, hear?"
Tom went behind the garage, where a floor of pine needles sloped upward. He smelled the toilet before he saw it, pungent urine that fought with the natural pine smell. Tearing the cellophane open, he wolfed at half of the sandwich. He turned his head to the side, ripping the bread with his teeth so the upper slice slid on its mayonnaise surface. He sucked the mayonnaise from between his fingers, and the soot there along with it. The ham and the butter mingled on his palate like a song. He'd forgotten how good oil tasted. He chewed the juice out of the lettuce. He tore off the plastic top and let the bittersweet orange juice trickle between his teeth, stinging his tongue, and down his throat. The salt in the ham lingered on his palate and he wished he had more. He sat against the wall and took his time with the other half, savoring every bite.
He washed his face and hands in cold water, figuring the urine smelled bad but it was like a song that told him he was alive. Now that he had something in his gut, he breathed right again. Took the strain out of his shoulders. Made him euphoric. He went to the cashier's office. Antonio was counting money, licking his fingers on every tenth bill. He breathed loudly as he did so. Maria looked up from her magazine and regarded Tom curiously. Antonio handed her the money, without fully looking back. He was more interested in Tom. "So, you gonna pay me for the tow."
"Yessir, I will. And for the sandwich."
"Okay, when?"
"I've gotta find some work. A place to stay. No car—."
"Excuses. Bunch of frigging excuses. Okay. You want another sandwich?"
"Yessir."
"I got some work for you to do, just today and then we'll see."
"Thanks!"
He had Tom clean up the property. Tom moved stiffly. It was hard to bend over. For a while he thought he might have some cracked ribs. Then he began to think maybe just some pulled muscles. Either case, it would go away. Pulled muscles, three days; cracked ribs, two to three weeks. If he could take it easy. Which wasn't likely.
Antonio left him alone, and Tom managed to fill three rusty 50-gallon drums with everything from old wrappers to desiccated pine boughs. Toward dark, Antonio called him in. Two sandwiches, a can of chili, and two colas stood on the counter. "You move slow, like maybe you hurt, but you a steady worker. You want to come back tomorrow?"
Tom knew it was his best straw to grab for at the moment. "I'd like that, yes."
"You earned yourself a bed for the night. Tomorrow we talk a little more."
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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