text: Please note: This story contains use of strong language and adult themes. Marti returned to the register, the beer from the six pack dropped by the local drunk causing her shoes to stick to the floor. “Hi,” she acknowledged, hoping to avoid as much conversation with the plump, middle-aged man as possible. “Why are you in such a bad mood? You should smile more. You’d be so much prettier,” he admonished. “You need gas? Where you at out there?” She eyed him indifferently, ignoring the comments so typical of insecure men. It was like they were reading from a script. “Maybe you should be nicer to your customers, you little bitch?” He leaned across the counter. She took a step back, her shoes making a loud peeling sound. “You need gas? Which pump?” She jabbed at a key on the register. “Are you the Escape or--” “The silver one,” he interrupted. A hint of a smirk crossed her face. “Okay. Paying for everyone.” “Listen here, you little smart ass--what’s your name? Give me the number to the store. I’m going to call your boss and report you!” “Keep in mind that I get paid $5.15 an hour, so go for it. Now, do you want gas or not? ‘Cause if you don’t, please leave. I got stuff to do.” The door buzzer sounded and Marti was almost relieved at the interruption. “Hey! It’s you!” a voice exclaimed. She looked over and pretended to be glad to see Gary, a regular from her former job at the hardware store. “Hay-ey.” Gary stepped in front of the middle-aged man. “You done here, man?” “Good luck with that little bitch! She got a terrible fucking attitude!” the man retorted as he slammed his palm against the glass of the door, leaving a print behind as he left. “You little cunt.” “Yeah, fuck you too!” Gary hollered after him. He leaned an elbow on the counter, smiling broadly. “I got you, girl.” Marti sighed. She really didn’t want to ask. “How you been?” she offered. She glanced into the lot. Empty. Great. “Aw, you know how it is. Keeping busy--hustling.” He curled his chin towards his shoulder. “You’re looking fine,” he continued. “You should go out with me. My woman left, so I’m all yours, baby.” “Treasure the thought,” she countered, “but I’m a lesbian.” He shook his head, raising his eyebrows and looking at her chest. “I’m okay with that. I’ll treat you right. You and your fine little ass.” “That means I don’t..like..dick.” Oh, mama--why, why?! “I’ll make you change your mind. Come on, baby. Marry me.” “Listen,” Marti demanded, her voice rising, “If you were the last fucking person on the earth, you still wouldn’t have a chance with me. Now, if you don’t mind, I got shit to do.” She took two long, sticky paces towards the end of the counter before the phone rang. She stomped her foot. “God!” As she padded over to the phone, she glanced at the clock--1:32. Less than half an hour until Brant would arrive and she still hadn’t even gotten a chance to count cigarettes, yet. “Salem bp. How may I help you?” she cooed. Static crackled momentarily on the other end of the line. “Hello?” she wondered. “Hey Marti. It’s Brant. Hey, I’m not going to be making it in today.” “Did you call Pam?” she demanded. Sure. Less than half an hour before he’s supposed to be here. Great. Stuck here ‘til 10:30 pm? Probably. “Nah, man. You can call her. I gotta go. Later.” The line went dead. Marti snorted. “Bad news?” Gary wondered. “You gotta stay late? I’ll keep you company.” Marti glanced out the window. The lot was filling with cars. She rushed around the counter, over to Gary. As forcefully as she could, she pushed against him. “Get out!” she demanded. As she pushed him towards the door, he grabbed her butt cheek. She smacked him in the face before turning and padding back around the counter. “Alright, baby. I might be back later. You like McDonald’s? I might bring you some food.” Gary responded, over his shoulder, bumping into a short older lady, who was attempting to come through the door. “’Scuse me, ma’am.” He nodded at the lady, before pointing at Marti and clicking his tongue. “Hi, dear,” the lady began. “That pump out there isn’t working. Could you help me?” Marti smiled. “Sure thing.” She followed the lady to the pump. Just as she thought. Why did people always stall out at selection of the grade? “You want regular?” she wondered. “That should be fine, dear.” Marti pressed the button for 87, squeezed the handle, and let the latch slide into place. “Oh, bless you, dear,” the lady offered. “No problem.” Returning to the store, she was greeted with a line. “Twenty,” the man in front demanded, throwing a wadded bill on the counter. He pushed past her, knocking her in the shoulder as he went. “Where?” she yelled after him, as the door closed. “Whatever,” she mumbled. She made her way to the end of the counter. “I need a pack of Marlboro,” the second man demanded, before she even reached the register. She took a few more sticky steps. Peering out the window, she searched for the first man. “Did you hear me?” The second man reached across the counter and waved his hand in front of Marti’s face. Annoyed, she grabbed the wadded twenty off the counter. “Did you see where he went,” she asked the second man. Gawddamn customers. She returned her gaze to the lot as the door buzzed. In the doorway, the first man reappeared. “Hey, I’m in a hurry. I ain’t got time for this! My pump isn’t working.” “That’s ‘cause you didn’t tell me where. What number?” she wondered. “I ain’t got time for this,” the man repeated. Holding out his hand, he rushed to the counter. “Forget it! I’ll go somewhere else! You just lost a customer! Gimme my money back!” He yanked the wadded bill from her hand. “Have a nice day,” she responded. “Pack of Marlboro,” the second man demanded, again. “Full flavor?” she wondered, stepping to the rack and fingering a pack. No response. She plucked the pack from the rack and returned to the counter. The register beeped as she scanned the pack. “How much?” the man demanded. “Three sixteen,” she responded. “Damn, you guys expensive,” he complained. “I can get a pack at Speedway for two ninety-seven.” He threw a five on the counter as Marti offered her hand. He picked up the pack as Marti scooped change out of the register. “This ain’t right. I needed menthol,” he stated. Marti closed the drawer and attempted to hand him his change. He offered his hand, before jerking it back. Coins scattered over the counter, some rolling onto the floor. “Did you hear me? I told you menthol,” he repeated, gesturing towards the rack. Marti laid the bills on the counter, grabbed the pack, and returned to the rack. “Marlboro, right?” she wondered. She pointed to a pack. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Impatiently, he held out his hand. The door buzzed and suddenly, the smell of gas permeated the store. Marti handed the man his pack, then looked over to see the little older lady, her clothes permeated with gas. “I just don’t know what to do,” the lady fretted. “My husband just died and he always used to pump the gas.” Marti glanced outside. The nozzle of the pump the lady had been using was lying on the ground, gas still gushing from it. Fuck! She ran around the counter. As she passed the customer at the counter, the woman reminded her that she had been “waiting for quite a while.” How many more things can go wrong? It was impossible for Marti to avoid stepping in gas in her new Adidas to get to the pump. Figures, she thought, bitterly. Maybe things were finally looking up. At least I won’t stick to the floor after this, she thought.