Truth Is, He’s Searching

It’s harder to go unnoticed if you’re pretty. Even if you live far out of town, deep in the Everglades and you don’t shower much and you’ve got swamp muck on your clothes. The Devil always got your pulse if your skin is a warm summer day and your eyes are the color of the ocean at dawn.

“You should see the locals Dave, there’s this fine little trashy thing. Barefoot even… I dunno, ten maybe… Yeah I’ll take a picture.” The man took my picture on his cell phone and winked.

“Hurry up with them chips, Lane,” Daddy hollered from the front, where he was paying for gas and waiting for me.

I ran up to the counter and handed my salty breakfast to old Tucker.

“What that man want?” Daddy hissed.

“He said I’m fine trash and took my picture.” I smiled, the way children do, oblivious of danger.

“Oh no.” Old Tucker hung his head and shook it hastily from side to side. He handed me back my chips and said real quiet-like, “You best get into your Daddy’s truck miss Lane.”

I didn’t argue.

But I made my way slowly to the door of the Gas-N-Go, lingering to see what might happen. Daddy’s chest was puffed, and that vein was bulging in his neck.

“What you say about my daughter, motherfucker?” Daddy bellowed and punched the man in the side of the head. The man’s cell phone flung out of his hand and skidded toward my feet. I backed away as if it was acid, bumping into the jingle bells on the glass door.

Daddy stomped the heel of his boot on the screen, cracking it into a thousand pieces.

“I don’t take kindly to perverts. And neither should you Lane. You got a burden with that face, girl. Never forget the Devil has his eye out for you.”

It was the summer I turned fifteen: that’s when our life changed. Daddy got real sick with lung cancer, even though he never smoked a day in his life.

Suddenly I had to do everything for him. For us.

I drove Daddy to the free clinic thirty miles away every Tuesday with only a learner’s permit in my back pocket. I fixed meals and kept the dogs fed. I did the housework a Mama should have done, but I'd been doing it since mine left when I was four.

The biggest change: Daddy was too sick to work anymore, and benefits from the state took time. Time we didn’t have.

So, it was just easier for me to get a job.

Old Tucker didn’t mind hiring me at a decent wage, even though I shoulda been in school. And my teachers didn’t mind me doing schoolwork at home and turning it in when I could. That’s just how it was in the swamp.

We looked out for one another.

“You sure you don’t mind watching the gas station on your own tonight?” Heather asked. She was Old Tucker’s daughter and usually worked the night shift. But, her two kids were performing at some big event out in Homestead, and I was the only other person who worked at the station. Closing early for the night would mean the locals who needed a gallon of milk or a pack of smokes would be shit-outta-luck until tomorrow morning.

I couldn’t do that to the folks here. The Gas-N-Go was our lifeline.

“Yeah, I don’t mind. Daddy had to take more of those chemo pills this morning at the clinic, so he’s sleeping hard–probably won’t wake up until tomorrow sometime.” I pushed the hair out of my eyes and used a rubber band to tie it back off my neck, the sweat dripping heavy in the humid air.

“You wanna turn the A/C up?” Heather asked.

“Nah, I’ll just stand in the beer cooler if I get too hot.” I laughed.

“Girl, you’re crazy.” Heather shook her head. “I’ll swing by your place when we get back tonight, just leave the keys for the store under the mat.” She walked out the glass doors, the bells jingling a cheerful goodbye.

Time drifted slowly and I yawned a few times.

I organized the shelves of candy and cookies to stay awake and helped myself to some swamp water—you know, when you mix all the flavors of the fountain soda in one cup. It’s a favorite around here.

Max stopped by for a case of Coors Light at eight.

Kenny filled up his truck with diesel around nine.

Jenny bought the last box of Tampax at ten.

And just before I was gonna lock up at eleven to go home, Kenzie strolled in and asked if she could borrow a gallon of milk.

“Ewe, borrow it? Like what? You’ll bring it back tomorrow?” I asked, turning off the lights in the back.

“Don’t be a bitch, Lane. The twins need milk for cereal in the morning and Heather knows I’m good for it.” Kenzie was a few years older than me and had kids already.

“Just don’t forget, I’ll put an IOU in the drawer.”

She didn’t even say thank you when she walked out the doors with the gallon of milk in hand—probably because of who walked in as she was trying to leave.

A stranger.

I stood tall behind the counter, hoping the stranger would quietly grab some beer and pay for the gas his friend was pumping into the black Mercedes outside. I knew the drill if this was more than a paying customer. Don’t argue if they ask for the money–just open up the drawer and give it to them. That’s what insurance was for. Don’t be a hero. That’s what Old Tucker told me, time and time again.

Don’t be a hero, Lane.

A bead of sweat lingered at my hairline, and I willed it not to roll down.

“You have any craft beer in this dump?” He asked. His clothes were clean and pressed, but his eyes were glazed, and I could tell he was high on something. I’d seen that look before when my cousin Grady got caught huffing aerosol cans behind our garage.

“There’s some stuff by a local brewer in the far cooler,” I said softly as the stranger approached the counter.

“Well, go get it for me then,” he demanded.

Yep. He wanted me to leave the counter so he could rob the store. This was the story he’d tell all his rich prick friends back home, how he and the asshole pumping gas drove into the swamp late at night and wrestled an alligator or some other wild lie. But in reality, he’d just lean over the counter and grab whatever he could and they’d drive off into the night and back to whatever bachelor party they came from.

Well, I wasn’t going to be the hero.

And going into the cooler right now wasn’t the worst idea. It was fucking hot.

“You know you’re too pretty to work here,” he said as I stepped down the aisle past him. His eyes suddenly less glazed, more alert, and they followed my every step.

My heart rate increased.

I said nothing. I just walked to the cooler in the back, praying he’d smash and grab the jar of cigars or wheel of scratch tickets. I took my time standing next to the cases of beer, trying not to completely freak out.

There was no one to call, even if something was about to go wrong. Daddy was home asleep. Old Tucker and Heather were fifty miles away. No sheriff because we ain’t really a town, just a stop on an old highway no one but us locals use.

“Jesus Christ, that took you long enough,” he said when I finally came out with the beer.

I didn’t respond. I just took the beer behind the counter and scanned it. The beep of the register was joined by the jingle of bells at the door.

“What the fuck is taking so long in here?” A second stranger. The gas pumper.

I swallowed hard. “That’ll be fifty-six dollars for the gas and beer.”

“Damn. You’re a little hottie. You ever hear that? Prime piece like you shouldn’t be way out here in the swamp,” the second man said to me.

I kept my head down, as best I could, and tried to breathe. If I didn’t handle this the right way, it would get ugly—fast.

“Nah, she’s slow or something,” the first man said and laughed. “Here, tell me if this shit is any good. It’s local.” He took one of the bottles of beer and opened it and handed it to his friend after throwing three crisp twenty dollar bills on the counter. I used the yellow counterfeit pen and marked the twenties like Old Tucker taught me before placing them in the register.

“You know, it’s not that bad. We should take some back for the guys at the hotel. Let them taste the local flavor,” the second stranger said after chugging the entire bottle and discarding it on the floor.

What an asshole.

“Girl, you want to grab another couple of sixers for us?”

“I didn’t mean more beer bro, I meant the local flavor–”

My stomach lurched. I looked up at the men, the first one was blushing, but the second one, he was leering and smiled. I shook my head.

“I know you ain’t talking about me. So take your fucking beer and get out of here before I call my Daddy.”

* * *

My Daddy. I could hear his voice in my head, “Lane. You gotta know, there are men out there who would do anything to have you. I know you try and hide it, but they still see you.”

* * *

“What’s your fucking daddy gonna do? Looks to me like you’re all alone, way out here in the swamps.” The second man walked around the counter and grabbed me by my hair as hard as he could. I flung my arm out to stop him and knocked over a canister of beef jerky sticks.

“Shit Todd, what the fuck man, she’s a kid. Sarah will fucking kill me if she finds out. I can’t get arrested the night before the wedding. Come on man,” the first man said in a panic.

I laughed. I was right.

I was about to become a bachelor party rape story.

Nothing in school prepares you for this moment. There aren’t any classes on how to protect yourself from an attacker when you’re working at a gas station when you’re fifteen. No one tells you that your bladder gets soft and it doesn’t matter how hard you squeeze, the pee still drips down your leg through your jean shorts.

Jingle.

“Get your goddamn hands off her.” A shotgun blasted through the chip aisle and buckshot ripped through the Doritos and Funyuns, sending an explosion of snacks into the air. I dropped to my knees, losing a fistful of hair to the stranger whose hand was still clenched tightly. He was frozen.

I put my hands over my head and curled up into a ball.

“Put the gun down!” screamed the first stranger.

“We didn’t hurt her!” shouted the man with my hair in his hand.

“The fuck you didn’t.” There was another blast of the gun, followed by the jingle of the bells, and the squealing of tires as the Mercedes drove out of the lot.

“Lane. You can get up. Those turds are gone.” It was Max.

I stood up slowly, not so much scared as I was embarrassed and annoyed. Now there was a huge mess to clean up and my pants were all pissed in.

“What the fuck was Heather thinking? You’re too fucking pretty to be left here alone at night.” Max shook his head. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just lost some hair is all,” I answered. “How’d you know I was in trouble?”

Max held the shotgun over his shoulder. “Oh you know, the boys were over and polished off the case of Coors I got earlier. Figured I’d come up and see if you was still open. Saw Kenzie and she said some strangers were gassing up, guess it was serindoupity.”

I grinned. “God Max, if you’re gonna use big words, at least get them right. Serendipitous.”

“That’s what I said. Now, lock this shit up and go home. I ain’t leaving unless I know you’re home with your Daddy. And I’m having a word with Heather and Old Tucker tomorrow. Un-fucking-believable. I mean look at this mess.” Max waved his hands around. Then he sauntered over to the beer cooler as I was turning off the lights.

“You want me to leave an IOU for the beer?”

“Hell no. This is my hero’s fee,” Max said as he walked out with a case of Coors in one hand and his shotgun in the other.

After I locked the front door, Max turned and tossed me a cold can of beer. “What’s this for?” I asked.

“You survived. Remember how it feels.”

* * *

I took a long hot shower when I got home that night. I hadn’t washed my hair in weeks. It felt good to soap off the grime and scent of the man who’d assaulted me.

I took a shower the next day too. And the day after that.

Daddy always says the Devil is watching me. Truth is, he ain’t watching—he’s searching. You can’t hide who you are out here: the helpless, the pervert, the beauty, the hero, the survivor.