“As I enter the gas station market, I know immediately some guy will be sitting there, legs splayed, hand wrapped around a styrofoam cup, just staring at whatever walks in. No surprises here. On a short term basis, I can deal with it. I find the coffee, after being annoyed by too many carafes. Viennese? It’s a crap shoot. Unfortunately, a lukewarm one. Now I can’t locate the cream. He’s watching, as I look around the counter, then around the counter’s corner, muttering, under my breath, cursing the supposed whereabouts of the goddamn Half ‘n Half. Provincial outpost stores are the best and the worst. I vaguely touch on a memory reminding me that this here Speculator NY gas station is marginally equipped, and marginally hospitable. But, even criminals deserve a second chance. Not more than a stone’s throw from the Speculator NY Department Store, where I’ve bought several deer-themed snow globes, such a gas station cannot be all bad. I instinctively dig deep into my street smarts, to find the hidden dairy products. Of course, in the “dairy case”, there is one open unit for those who seek God in strange places, while the hand printed sign, scotch taped so that the corners curl in, is unreadable. But I’m an IQ above all that, or maybe just desperate to remove myself from the lecherous stare of the splay legged local. I quickly whiten my Viennese. Looking on the bright side, it does have caffeine. Which is why I’m here. The only people behind the counter are having a great conversation, about I don’t know what, making a sandwich for another guy. It’s a good ten minutes waiting, second in line, with my lukewarm, whitened, Austrian, brown colored broth losing temperature in my hand, while splay legged giant, gawks and ... is that drool? I could live here. I’m easily as much the hermit as any cocky, rubber booted hanger-on, chit chatting next to the idling truck that blocks my own rig. The conversation goes on in the deli, for another five. I’m a little frazzled, let’s face it. I’m on a road trip. I got to get back to Vermont before dark, if I can. These idiots, though charming, are totally stoned. This town, to me, represents a lot of things. It’s mid-way between me and where I’ve left, and where I’m going. It’s got a public bathroom that’s decidedly disgusting, but enthusiastically advertised by signage. I also think my family took a vacation here, once, in the motel units by Lake Pleasant, when I was in elementary school. So, it’s practically nostalgic, but equally shrouded in memory loss & drenched in pangs of dysfunction. In the afternoon light, I’d only wanted to bond, & leave. Pay for my coffee, then roll. Be awed by the winter shadows, lock eyes with a lost wood chuck or two, then drive. Yeah, baby. You pump that ethanol free, you pump it, & feel it ‘til you rise off your bench seat. Press your face into the clouds, or further, into a flock of geese or December’s dark sunrise. Don’t be afraid to be born, at this darkest time of the year. Say goodbye as if the world was only made of goodbyes. Learn to speak of your loss, and own each absence, hugging all that’s left you, close, like a comfortable, warm, wooly cloak. Celebrate the calamity of catastrophe. Loving what’s dead: hard, doggedly, with a sort of bull-headed insanity. It’s enough to make anyone miss you. And recalibrate. And, unceremoniously, take you at your word. As you peel out of the parking lot, knowing what you don’t want, and, in equal measure, what you would never, ever, leave behind.”
