Photo by Erik Gjester on Unsplash
Mom pulled into a gas station with rusting pumps, cheap prices, and a guy in a grease-stained uniform, the stink of oil and gasoline seeping into our car, acrid and heavy, as the station attendant eyed my mother, then me, and finally our dented, rusting heap.
Mom rolled down the window—Three dollars’ worth, she said with an air of nonchalance—but I knew better, because asking for so little gnawed at her dignity, even though in 1970 three dollars got you eight gallons, enough to keep us going until her next paycheck.
She handed the man a ten, and for change he counted out seven one-dollar bills, drawing out each bill slowly while eyeing my mother’s tan arms, the knit shirt outlining the shape of her breasts, the little rings of sweat under her arms from the heat, and then, when he reached the fifth dollar, letting his eyes travel to me, to my shorts bunched up at the tops of my thighs, to the sun-bleached blond hair on my arms and legs, and to the small buds of breasts that had swelled right after my tenth birthday and now showed despite my wearing a thick tee shirt.
I wanted to straighten my shorts but his look was so imposing and persistent that I froze, staring intently at a nearby telephone pole, pretending not to notice his stare even though I felt every second of it, and when I glanced at his face he caught my eye and touched his top and bottom lips with his tongue.
Finally he held out the bills to my mother, who snatched the wad and swiftly cranked up the window, and neither of us said a word even though I wanted to, as she gunned the accelerator and pulled out of there in a cloud of dust.
My mom didn’t see when I turned back, faced the creep and gave him both middle fingers, and when she asked what I was doing I said I was just looking for something I dropped, then slunk back, flipped on the radio, cracked my window, and keep the stench of gasoline and oil from stinking up the car for the rest of the day.
Andrea Marcusa’s writings have appeared in Milk Candy Review, Citron Review, Moon City Review, Cutbank and others. She’s received recognition in a range of competitions, including Smokelong, Best Microfiction, and Cleaver, Prime Number and is the author of the chapbook “What We Now Live With,” (Bottlecap Press.) She’s a member of the faculty at The Writer’s Studio in New York City and a flash editor at Cleaver Magazine.
