throws it in the back. It clanks against the other energy drink cans. Those things taste like cough syrup that’s been fermenting in the mouth of a dead goat, but shit, they work.
Eventually, her bladder is like a yippy terrier that wants to go out. And the Fiero – which she has named Red Rocket – hungers for gas.
She steps out of the car at a rickety podunk gas station not far from Daytona Beach, and as soon as she does, the heat hits her. It’s like a hug from a hot jogger. Sticky. Heavy heaving bosoms. All-encompassing. A hot blanket of flesh on flesh. Gone is the rush of air conditioning from the car and already she feels the sweat beading on her brow. Ew, gods, yuck.
This is winter? Thirty seconds in she already feels like a swamp.
Florida: America’s hot, moist land-wang.
Everything’s bright. She fumbles on the dash for a pair of sunglasses and quickly throws them on. She feels like a vampire dragged out into the sun for the first time. How long will it be before she bursts into flames, burns down like one of her cigarettes? A char-shaped statue of Miriam Black.
She hurries into the gas station – a round-cheeked Cuban dude watches her with some fascination, like he’s seeing Nosferatu shy away from the judging rays of the Day God – and darts into the bathroom.
Into the stall. Rusty door closed. Someone has peed on the seat, which always astounds her. Men are basically orangutans in good clothes, so she gets that they ook and flail and get piss everywhere. But women? Shouldn’t the ladies be better than this? Why is there pee on the toilet seat? Hoverers , she thinks. That’s what it is. They hover over the seat like a UFO over a cornfield, trying to avoid the last woman’s pee – also a hoverer, in a grim urine-soaked cycle – and then pssshhh . Splash. Spray. Lady-whiz everywhere. The cycle continues.
Miriam does the civilized thing – a rarity for her but in bathrooms she apparently reverts and becomes a member of the human species – and wads up toilet paper around her hands to make gloves. She cleans the seat. Scowling and cursing the whole time. Then she sits. And she pees.
In here it’s dark and it’s cool, at least.
Outside the stall, the bathroom door opens.
Someone else comes in.
Footsteps echoing. Little splashes as they step through water.
Then: clang .
Something drops. Metal on metal. A loud sound, a jarring sound – it gives Miriam’s heart a stun-gun jolt. A scrape. A splash .
She peers under the door.
The bent and bitten edge of a red snow shovel drags along the floor. A pair of muddy boots walks it along.
Miriam’s sweat goes cold.
No no no, not here, not now .
The footsteps approach. Slapping against the soaked floor.
Miriam feels her pulse in her neck: a rabbit’s pulse, thumping against the inside of her skin like a hard finger flicking. Her throat feels tight.
The boots stop just outside the stall.
Snow slides off their tops. Plop, plop. Melting on the tile.
Red runnels of blood crawl toward Miriam’s feet.
A twinge of something inside her: an infant’s fist twisting her guts. Then the woman outside her door drops something:
A purple paisley handkerchief.
The blood runs to it. Soaks through to it.
Fear transforms. A spitting rain into a booming thundercloud. It’s anger now, jagged and defiant, a piece of broken glass chewed in the mouth – and Miriam roars, kicks out with her own black boot–
The door swings open. It slams against the other door.
Nobody’s there. No woman with a red shovel. No boots. No snow, no blood, no gangbanger’s handkerchief.
Miriam sighs. Massages the heels of her hands into her eyes, pressing hard, running them in circles. In the blue-black behind her eyes, fireworks explode and blur and fade – no sound, just silent flashes of light from her pressing hard on her own eyes.
“At least you have both eyes,” comes a voice. Louis. Not-Louis.
The Trespasser, more like it.
She opens her eyes. A vulture sits on
Eventually, her bladder is like a yippy terrier that wants to go out. And the Fiero – which she has named Red Rocket – hungers for gas.
She steps out of the car at a rickety podunk gas station not far from Daytona Beach, and as soon as she does, the heat hits her. It’s like a hug from a hot jogger. Sticky. Heavy heaving bosoms. All-encompassing. A hot blanket of flesh on flesh. Gone is the rush of air conditioning from the car and already she feels the sweat beading on her brow. Ew, gods, yuck.
This is winter? Thirty seconds in she already feels like a swamp.
Florida: America’s hot, moist land-wang.
Everything’s bright. She fumbles on the dash for a pair of sunglasses and quickly throws them on. She feels like a vampire dragged out into the sun for the first time. How long will it be before she bursts into flames, burns down like one of her cigarettes? A char-shaped statue of Miriam Black.
She hurries into the gas station – a round-cheeked Cuban dude watches her with some fascination, like he’s seeing Nosferatu shy away from the judging rays of the Day God – and darts into the bathroom.
Into the stall. Rusty door closed. Someone has peed on the seat, which always astounds her. Men are basically orangutans in good clothes, so she gets that they ook and flail and get piss everywhere. But women? Shouldn’t the ladies be better than this? Why is there pee on the toilet seat? Hoverers , she thinks. That’s what it is. They hover over the seat like a UFO over a cornfield, trying to avoid the last woman’s pee – also a hoverer, in a grim urine-soaked cycle – and then pssshhh . Splash. Spray. Lady-whiz everywhere. The cycle continues.
Miriam does the civilized thing – a rarity for her but in bathrooms she apparently reverts and becomes a member of the human species – and wads up toilet paper around her hands to make gloves. She cleans the seat. Scowling and cursing the whole time. Then she sits. And she pees.
In here it’s dark and it’s cool, at least.
Outside the stall, the bathroom door opens.
Someone else comes in.
Footsteps echoing. Little splashes as they step through water.
Then: clang .
Something drops. Metal on metal. A loud sound, a jarring sound – it gives Miriam’s heart a stun-gun jolt. A scrape. A splash .
She peers under the door.
The bent and bitten edge of a red snow shovel drags along the floor. A pair of muddy boots walks it along.
Miriam’s sweat goes cold.
No no no, not here, not now .
The footsteps approach. Slapping against the soaked floor.
Miriam feels her pulse in her neck: a rabbit’s pulse, thumping against the inside of her skin like a hard finger flicking. Her throat feels tight.
The boots stop just outside the stall.
Snow slides off their tops. Plop, plop. Melting on the tile.
Red runnels of blood crawl toward Miriam’s feet.
A twinge of something inside her: an infant’s fist twisting her guts. Then the woman outside her door drops something:
A purple paisley handkerchief.
The blood runs to it. Soaks through to it.
Fear transforms. A spitting rain into a booming thundercloud. It’s anger now, jagged and defiant, a piece of broken glass chewed in the mouth – and Miriam roars, kicks out with her own black boot–
The door swings open. It slams against the other door.
Nobody’s there. No woman with a red shovel. No boots. No snow, no blood, no gangbanger’s handkerchief.
Miriam sighs. Massages the heels of her hands into her eyes, pressing hard, running them in circles. In the blue-black behind her eyes, fireworks explode and blur and fade – no sound, just silent flashes of light from her pressing hard on her own eyes.
“At least you have both eyes,” comes a voice. Louis. Not-Louis.
The Trespasser, more like it.
She opens her eyes. A vulture sits on
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