Broke Down

Bro and I keep walking up the road. There is a town here somewhere, even if it’s just another gas station, I know it. Then there is a twinkle of light. A gas station! I knew it! It’s big, and there are trucks parked for the night. This is where I should be broken down, where the truckers are. I poke my head in the door and ask how long they’re open. Twenty four hours!

I walk back to the van with Bro, and make him go in his crate with his blanket and a hot water bottle I thought to fill before our gas station closed. Then I grab the keys, lock up, and walk back up to the open gas station.

Going through the door is like walking into boiling water, my face tingles so much. There is a short, dirty man with red hair leaning against the counter, reading the newspaper and complaining about ragheads. I wander the store, looking for a table or a place to sit out of the way. There’s a big gift section, with a wide selection of fairies, angels, and Jesus Loves You paraphenalia. Set on a table in a corner is a big granite sea turtle, and it makes me think of Darcy.

There’s no place to sit, so I decide to buy something to ingratiate myself with the counter people. Hot chocolate.

“Hey,” the guy behind the counter says. “How’s it going?” He is too clean, with curly hair just long enough to proclaim his coolness. I bet he’s from California.

I tell him my van broke down and I’m stuck here. He’s the picture of concern. Do I have a place to stay?

I cock my head and look cute. “Well, I was hoping I could hang out here for a couple hours.”

“Of course. Hey, if you want I can call my parents and you can go hang out on their couch.” In Alaska, one never knows when accepting these invitations if the big hearted inviters are potheads or radical Christians. I decline. I like it in my van. It’s just kind of cold.

The nice boy even goes upstairs and brings out a folding chair for me. I sit and write in my notebook, trying to ignore the red head, who’s complaining now about wetbacks. I almost laugh when he says that he was raised Amish, but I manage to restrain myself and keep my eyes averted.

Soon it slows down and the boy comes out from behind the counter.

“Ma’am,” he says, “do you know Jesus?”

I guess it’s not pothead, then. I would laugh if I weren’t stuck here.

He launches into a long explanation of his beliefs and his personal relationship with God. When I can get a word in edgewise I tell him I’m happy that Jesus makes him happy. I won’t try to impose my Godesses on him, so maybe he could keep his Gods to himself too.

Oh, but Jesus is just so wonderful, he says. He’s just bursting to share Jesus with the whole world, don’t I understand?

“No, I don’t. But I’ve read about it, this impulse you have.”

Somehow this inspires him to launch into a Jesus monologue about the evils of gays and the corruption of this great country, which was founded by Jesus people. He keeps talking while I slip my coat on, and barely pauses when I wave goodbye and walk back into the cold.