novelxo Pump Two: Chapter 1
smell of gasoline. I think it’s the fumes that drift up your nostrils and linger there for hours, leaving behind a stain that’s almost impossible to remove.
Another thing I hate is customer-facing jobs. The whole thing about the customer always being right never sits well with me, especially when most of the time, they’re definitely not.
It’s almost comical how the two things I despise have now become significant aspects of my new job at a gas station.
I listen to my friend, Freya, mindlessly ramble about some story whilst painting her nails. Her upper body is casually perched next to the cash register as if working here is a last priority.
“Honestly, I used to sleep on the graveyard shift because it was so quiet. Nobody checks the cameras in here unless some crazy shit happens, like when we got robbed last year,” she says indifferently, pointing gun fingers at me for emphasis. “So feel free to go on your phone or whatever.”
Freya blows briefly on her left hand and moves on to paint her right. With her fast rambles, I can only manage to nod my head in response. I’m actually a little envious of her ability to switch off her surroundings whilst focusing on telling whatever story comes to mind.
“And how often does this gas station get robbed?” I ask, grabbing a gummy bear out of the packet that’s sitting between us.
“It was only that one time and not a regular occurrence, I promise. If you get into any trouble, just call these numbers.” She points to a list of emergency contacts taped to the counter. Her number stands out amongst the rest, encircled with hearts and doodles. Freya, as always, is completely unfazed by something as panic-inducing as a robbery.
We met a few years ago at a high school party. It was the first and last party of that nature I ever attended after discovering my then-boyfriend cheating on me. Two good things came out of that experience: I realized my ex was a scumbag and I met Freya.
She and I recently reconnected after bumping into each other during my hellish shift at the local grocery store. Like me, she was one of the few who didn’t attend college after school.
“I’m so happy you want this job.” She stops momentarily to lift her head and offers me a sweet smile before returning to her nails. “Since Davy left, I’ve been stuck working here all night. Considering my uncle co-owns this place, you’d think he would listen to my suggestions about hiring more workers. Yay to being understaffed,” Freya exclaims sarcastically with false cheer.
Her family has worked at this gas station for years because it’s owned half by her uncle and half by Mr. Simmons who bought it in the eighties or something.
“Did you not see the customer I was dealing with when you saw me working at the store? I was one more bad day away from quitting on the spot,” I point out. “You literally saved me by offering me this job.” Freya gives me a satisfied smirk, her eyes brightening at my words.
As I fiddle with some lighters on the counter, she continues to silently paint her nails. I take in the outdated gas station; it’s so old that you can’t even pay at the pump.
Grimacing, I study the yellowing walls and gray linoleum flooring, both of which were probably once a bright white. Only the cash register and coffee machine appear to have retained some semblance of modernity. The interior and exterior have definitely seen better days, and generations of locals must have borne witness to the aging over time.
Walking around the counter, I rub my foot on the worn-down spot in front of it. I look up when a customer slams down a six-pack of beers next to me with a resounding thud.
“Hey Frank, how can I help?” Freya addresses. She seems familiar with him and engages in casual banter whilst tentatively pressing the buttons on the cash register to avoid ruining her nails. We watch Frank pay and leave before Freya speaks again, “You know how to use the register, right? People constantly ask if we have any five dollars or ten dollars to exchange for bigger bills. Don’t act like a bank and swap them or you’ll run out of those fives and tens fast.”
“Got it,” I reply absentmindedly, flicking a lighter and watching the flame dance.
Freya closes her nail polish and places it under the counter, pausing to stare at my hair. With her easily distracted mind, she derails the conversation about the training at hand.
“God, I wish I didn’t go so bold for my haircut. Why did I go from blonde to ginger and chop it to my shoulders? I must’ve been having a bad week.” Freya assesses a strand of her hair with a look of disgust.
“Oh, come on! It’s copper and it looks gorgeous,” I respond truthfully. It really does look nice. A lot different from when we were in high school.
“It looks like ass, Vi,” Freya sighs. “You’ve always had amazing style though, so I’ll trust your opinion. Do you make clothes by the way? I’m loving this.” Her gaze shifts from my hair to my outfit, and she reaches out to touch the fabric of my cardigan.
“Nope, I just draw and paint. Same old, same old,” I reply. I’m obsessed with my art, and I’m restraining myself from talking Freya’s ear off about it at the brief mention of the topic.
“Oh yeah! I remember you telling me about that mural next to the market, it looks so good!” That mural took me ages; days of painting in the Arizona sun left me with the most painful sunburn ever, just the memory of it makes me cringe.
“Oh my god, I spent weeks on it. I wish I could get more commissions for public art because I’m already considering doing art or nothing. Unemployment, here I come,” I joke. Obviously, I will be working until I reach full-time artist status. I kind of hope that speaking about how much I want it will somehow manifest it into happening…the artist stuff, not unemployment. Freya starts violently shaking her head at my words.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle subbing in for this graveyard shift again. If you leave this job, I might just end up becoming unemployed with you, Vi.” We both laugh and Freya offers me the last gummy bear. I decline and she eats it, throwing the packet in the trash. “But seriously, the station could do with a creative touch. It’s so fucking ugly. I’ll ask my uncle if you can add some color, then you can paint during your shift,” Freya says whilst chewing, motioning to an empty wall next to some shelves.
She’s right. I noticed the walls earlier, they’re completely barren. I doubt that a fresh coat of paint has been within ten feet of the station since it was built.
“Yeah, that’d be amazing. I’ve been trying to build up my portfolio, but my art just isn’t selling. Sometimes I wonder if I should have just gone to college. Maybe it would’ve helped jumpstart my career.”
“Seriously, me too. Especially after my very brief stint in you-know-what. It feels like everyone is way ahead of me.” Freya raises her brows and blows on her nails.
Whilst I haven’t asked, I know that Freya partied and drank a fair bit during her senior year. It resulted in her spending a short time after graduation in some alcohol or drug rehabilitation scheme. She’s adamant that her parents overreacted, but I don’t know the whole story.
“We can still go to college, there’s no age limit.”
“Yeah, but my main motivation right now is the fear of missing out. All of my friends are at college. Will, Helena…” She continues listing off a handful of people from school whose names I’ve heard but aren’t super familiar with. “At least you’re here. I don’t know if the partying there would be worth the questioning from my parents. I’m trying to slowly edge back into the social scene here and it’s scary. The drinking was honestly not bad, but I don’t want to fall down that hole with my mom again.” Seeing Freya anxious is a rare sight, the topic is obviously bothering her.
“Well, don’t feel like you’re alone in this. I also need to get out more, and I don’t drink that much. Maybe we could hang out together?” I suggest. I feel like spending more time with Freya could benefit both of us.
“Really? I know I’m too old to care about what my family thinks. They’re just so crazy and—” Freya cuts herself off, her eyes sad. “Anyways, that’d be nice, Vi.” A hint of pink tinges her high cheekbones, as if she’s a little embarrassed for showing a vulnerable side of herself.
Our conversation is interrupted by another customer, and Freya lets me take the wheel. She watches me serve a few people before wrapping up the brief, informal training.
“Easy, right? Like, no customers come at night and you have this bad boy.” Freya leans over the counter and slaps the plastic divider that separates me from the customers, making it wobble slightly. She yanks her hand back, remembering that she’s just painted her nails. “Make sure everything’s stocked and cleaned for the morning shift and you’re good to go. Sounds okay?” Freya presses on a nail to check if it’s dried and looks up from her hand to me, waiting for a response.
“Sounds great, I’ll keep you updated with my first shift.” I think my tone sounds a little bored because Freya looks at me amused, as if she knows exactly how I feel.
“Please do! I’m going to head to the gym now. You know…trying to get in shape for summer.” Freya slaps her torso, the skin of which is visible in her matching cropped tee and leggings set. She then flexes her bicep, causing me to let out a sharp laugh.
“Have fun, Freya,” I say with a smile as the lingering scent of her nail polish wafts around where I’m standing.
“Later, Vi!” Freya beams at me and exits the building. I watch her walk toward her car through the window, music blasting as she leaves the parking lot.
The station is now cloaked by an eerie silence in the absence of her enthusiastic personality.
I tap my fingers on the counter and look around the cash register. There’s a box of lost property, and some magazines take residence on a shelf underneath. The magazines are ancient. They even have celebrities on the covers that I completely forgot existed. I’m convinced that the cash register hasn’t been tidied since before I was born.
On the shelf behind me, there’s a radio that I switch to some rock station. The music actually gives the place some life. What did Freya do to keep herself entertained here? My footsteps tap against the floor as I meander down the aisles, dragging my finger along the top of some shelves which show evidence of dust—lots of it. I guess I might as well find something to do if there are no customers.
I locate the utility closet, pulling the dangling string in the doorway to turn on the light so that I can find a cloth. It doesn’t turn on. I pull the string again…nothing. With one hard yank, the string comes loose, and the closet remains pitch black. Great, that’s probably coming out of my paycheck.
I decide to make do with what I have and prop the door open, allowing the light from the station to illuminate the closet.
Dusting turns out to be more therapeutic than I expected because when the bell rings to signal that someone has entered the store, I’m reminded that I have customers to serve. I almost jump for joy at the sign of life and move to the register, spotting a group of teenagers walking around.
The smell of marijuana trails after them, and I give them a small smile as they disappear down an aisle. I keep an eye on them through the CCTV behind the counter. Watching them reminds me of some of the kids I went to school with.
At school, I would tuck myself inside the art classroom whenever I didn’t have class. I’d see classmates sneak behind the building to smoke a joint, amongst other things. Whilst I was by no means a loner, I wish I didn’t play it so safe in high school.
Like most of my peers, I was a good student and avoided trouble like my life depended on it. I was scared of getting told off, got with the guy with good prospects, and followed the rules.
It was as simple as that and despite doing everything by the book, my life was so boring. Now it’s three years later and almost nothing has changed. The only thing that’s different is that I’m now single.
I’m drawn out of my thoughts when the group of teenagers pile a bunch of chips in front of me. They must set the tone for the type of customers I get for the rest of the night because from that point on, it’s either high teenagers or older men who come in to buy gas, alcohol, cigarettes, and even those e-cigarette things.
I’m redrawing a price sign, and my ears perk up when I hear a loud rumbling. Curiosity gets the better of me, so I peer out of the window to see a sleek, black motorcycle pulling into the gas station lot.
The rider doesn’t remove their helmet, which means that I can’t make out a face. I can, however, tell that they’re well-built despite the thick black leather that encases their body.
When I think of motorcycles, my mind conjures the image of bearded older men who smoke cigars and are more rugged. This person seems to be the opposite of my preconception.
The biker makes their way to the entrance, and I resume my drawing position as his large, gloved hand opens the gas station door. The bell rings loudly, and the pungent smell of gasoline seeps into the station. I swallow sharply as the intimidating figure gets bigger with each step they take toward me.
This person is huge. Fuck.
I shrink back a little when large boots come to a thumping stop opposite me. The helmet actually looks really cool, and despite having a better view of them, it gives no indication of what their face looks like. It’s almost like it’s made of a one-sided, see-through material. The biker can obviously see me, but I can’t see them.
The angle of their head tells me they’re looking at the half-drawn sign on the counter. I can’t shake the feeling that they’re sizing me up too.
“Hey,” I squeak out and clear my throat. I try to make what I think is eye contact with them, only to end up looking directly into my own reflection.
“Twenty on pump two.” His voice is so deep, it’s like a baritone lull.
“Sure.” I input numbers into the cash register, having to void and re-input because of my fumbling hands. “Do you need anything else today? Perhaps a coffee?” I’m trying to force a conversation just so I can hear Biker Guy’s voice again. I’ve never heard someone speak with a voice that deep before. He doesn’t reply. I smile at him politely, only to once again look at my reflection. I notice a stray hair and discretely use his helmet like a mirror, tucking the strand behind my ear.
It’s awkward speaking to a faceless man, and his tedious responses make things more uncomfortable.
“No, thank you. Maybe next time,” he says, pulling out his card.
Next time? I nod and gesture at the card in his gloved hand.
“Whenever you’re ready,” I say.
He suddenly tucks the card back into his pocket and pulls out a fifty-dollar bill, placing it on the counter.
“Do you have anything smaller?” I ask, nervous about accepting something so large. He’s going to run me out of change, and Freya’s words about acting like a bank come to mind.
“Keep the change.” What?
“But—” I don’t have time to finish my sentence because he’s already leaving. My heart beats erratically in my chest like a wild creature demanding release, its rhythm persisting until the loud bike engine is nothing but a murmur down the road.