The old patrol car slowly rolled past until it reached the end of the pavement of town, about thirty yards past the property, before making a U-turn and parking on the far side of the road. I'm not sure if the U-turn itself was illegal but parking on the left side sure was. Not that it mattered to Sheriff Richie and not that it mattered in this tiny shithole town. He let the car idle as he scoped us out from across the road. He didn't think that he was being obvious but we knew - two young girls in skimpy clothes on a hot lazy afternoon sitting in the shade of the porch. He was ogling us, perving. If the creep had any brains he'd have busted us for drinking under age. Then he could have taken us into Parkford Station and strip searched us or some shit, but I guess he figured we were sipping ginger ale and never thought twice about it. I raised my cider to him in a toast and Kennie joined in, adding a middle finger.
"Hey Dickie!" she called and we had a laugh. The sheriff put the car in gear and rolled away, pretending that he hadn't been up to anything at all.
Of course we didn't really mind the attention even though he was gross. We were bored, hanging out and hoping for something fun to come along. A chance to flip off the fuzz was better than nothing. On such a hot day we were barely wearing anything - Kennie in her black-dyed hair and her black bikini cutting into her fleshy curves, and skinny little me in a pink checked bandeau, cutoff shorts and my punky haircut - so I guess that we expected it from him anyways.
Not long after, car wheels on the gravel could be heard far in the distance. There was only one road running through Bugshaw, the butthole that is our home town, and was only paved for the three blocks of frontage. We were in reclining lawn chairs set in the shade of the front porch of the gas station sucking on cold cherry ciders that we had helped ourselves to from the fridge and were on our third or fourth each. With the first round, we were sure that Uncle Vern wouldn't have noticed, but as the hot afternoon bored on we stopped caring about how pissed he'd be with us, especially with me. It had been a baking dry summer that had stunted the crops, and after graduation all the single boys around town went off to college while half of the few that were left we had already shagged behind (or in front of) their girlfriends' backs. There was really nothing to do out here in the middle of East-fuckin'-nowhere, especially since the town banned dirt bikes and ATVs after the 'church incident' the previous fall. Someone had carved up the lawn in front of Presby and the shit flew all over town like someone wrapped the Virgin Mary's head in the stars-and-stripes and desecrated her from behind or something. Kennie and I both wanted to move to the city but there were no jobs in town for two teenagers to make enough money to do that, and the number of Christmases and birthdays it would take to save up dough from grandparents would have been pretty much infinity-plus-one. Bugshaw was a fucking dead end.
The car drew closer. We could hear it rushing and crumbling along the gravel pretty fast. The locals rarely drove at that rate of speed, always scared of kicking up stones and scraping paint or cracking a windshield, so it was either one of the kids we knew looking for thrills, or an out-of-towner rambling through. I looked up and saw the huge cloud of dust trailing out behind it. The car was black and sleek with tinted windows. It wasn't from around here. When it reached the warped pavement leached grey from years of unrelenting summer sun, the throb of its engine slowed. Kennie looked over her shoulder and lowered her shades. It was pulling in for gas. We had a customer, but neither of us were about to get up. Of course Kennie had an excuse. She was just hanging out. I was the one on the clock.
The car rolled into the lot and pulled up to the pump. The engine cut and a couple moments later the driver got out. It was a guy, college-aged or older. His hair was cropped close on the sides with just a hint more on top. He wasn't too tall, had a husky build and wore shades. A grey t-shirt stretched a big blue star across his pecs with 'Dallas Cowboys' spelled in block letters beneath. He pushed his chest out, stretched his arms and looked about absently. He'd been on the road a while. With a sigh of resignation, I got up out of my chair and leaned against the porch post.
"Need gas?"
"Dumb question," he smirked.
"I have to ask," I said before tipping the bottle to my lips and downing the last couple of swallows of faint pink brew.
"Uh-huh," he nodded. Then I placed the empty on the porch rail and dropped down to the hot pavement in my dirty flip-flops. Lowering his glasses, he took me in as I approached, my skinny matchstick arms and legs, my light brown hair shorn into a pixie cut with pink-dyed tips down the front of my face and the shaved sides growing back in, my little top stretched across my tiny chest. Around the back of the car, silver stretched letters read 'D O D G E'. I reached the pump and we stood just a few feet apart. He pushed his shades back up his hawk-like nose. It had a slight bend in it and I wondered if it had ever been broken. He looked like that kind of guy - one who played sports and got into fights. He was stocky, fleshy, muscly, but not well defined. He was built like a pitbull. His jeans clung tight to the powerful curves of his ass.
"Reg'lar?"
"Yeah."
"Fill?"
"Sure."
"It's set to pre-pay," I told him. Uncle Vern didn't trust me enough. I mean I could still turn the pump on myself for cash sales, but he knew I would sometimes wander off for a bit and leave the place unattended, like the time that he showed up unannounced to catch me blowing Cole Shipton in the tool shed. The most surprised was Cole. I'd never seen a guy go soft so fast, like ice cream in a microwave on level ten. "Card or cash?" I prompted him. The stranger slipped his wallet from his back pocket, took out a card and swiped it on the pump.
"Sure is hot," he remarked as he took in the lack of landscape. He wasn't sweating at all, at least not yet.
"Air conditioning is nice, huh?"
"M-hm," he nodded. I glanced inside the tinted windows and saw the silhouettes of the empty seats. He was travelling alone. Then I opened the gas flap that he already popped and I twisted off the cap. Taking the nozzle from the pump, I pressed the button for regular and inserted, locking the trigger. The pump began to whir. I walked past him and he turned to keep his eyes on me as I took the squeege from the bucket.
"Windshield?"
"Sure."
I began to squeege the driver's side of the window. The car was rather big and I'm small so I had to lean forward, holding my hand over the button of my fly so as to not scratch the paint.
"Having yourself a cool drink in the sun?" he asked.
"Dumb question," I smirked.
"Got one for me?"
"Fer sale in the store," I winked.
"What about what
you're
drinkin'?"
I finished the driver's side and wiped the squeege, then dunked it back in the bucket and walked around the front putting a bit of a swank in my hips on purpose. It was fun to see just how much of his attention I could get. The grill and lamps were pitted with a few bugs, as well as the likeness of Lincoln between the red letters of the plate. He was from out-of-state.
"Illinois, huh?" I remarked. "What brings you through here?" I asked as I scrubbed the left headlamp clean.
