Nite Crawlers Sold Here

It was the only thing lit for miles. The great American caricature of a gas station, built here as someone’s idea of an esca for the desert—dingy, buzzing neon ads for cheap beer and cigarettes beckoning through the deep black night to anything that chanced to drive by. Randy pulled in off the highway, parking next to the only pump. His car was dry, dusty, parched. He knew how it felt. He stepped out of his beat-up Pinto and left it to drink greedily from the nozzle. He waded through the thick heat toward the 24/7 convenience store. Its double glass doors whooshed open, and the air inside spilled out to him with cool tendrils that rushed through the holes in his t-shirt and pulled him eagerly inside. Randy found what he needed in the refrigerated rows behind shelves of cheap no-name potato chips, next to packages of cookies that never seemed to reach their expiration dates no matter how long they sat to collect dust. He made his way back to the counter and set a single energy drink can next to the register in front of a gum-chewing teen who had been coloring in his nails with a Sharpie. The boy’s fingers floated above the cash register’s buttons, his mouth sounding out each step in the transaction. Randy’s eyes glazed over the signs behind the boy’s greasy head. Nite crawlers sold here: Cash only “Big fishin’ culture around here?” he asked the boy. “What?” The boy paused, index fingers hanging. “Fish-ing,” Randy enunciated. “You sell a lot of night crawlers for fishin’ out here? In the desert?” “Oh, sure man. I mean, I don’t ask what people buy stuff for. Might be fishing, might not be fishing.” “They fresh?” “Sure, they’re fresh.” “You sure ‘bout that? How long they been here?” “Uhhhh couple days maybe?” he pressed more buttons, the cash register beeping back at him. “Are they live or not, son? “Geez, dude. Do you want them to be dead or not dead? I can’t even tell.” “They gotta be alive, or no use usin’ them.” “I’m pretty sure they’re fresh,” the boy said. “Okay. Give me the bucket.” “Five dollars.” “The drink?” Randy asked. The boy grunted, then punched more buttons. The register sprang forward. “Seven dollars and thirty-seven cents.” Randy dumped a pile of coins and dollar bills onto the counter and left, wincing against the heat that buffeted against the paradisiacal air-conditioned air, trying to fight its way in. Outside, the gas pump had clicked off. The night was still except for Randy’s strut. He walked back to his car with the plastic bucket of nite crawlers cradled in his arm, the energy can beading with water in his palm. He yanked his car door wide, throwing the energy drink can onto the empty driver’s seat. He worked one finger under the lid of the bucket and pulled. Inside, the worms were still, putrid, no good for fishing. “Fuckin’ idiot kid,” Randy said to the bucket of dead worms. The fluorescent gas station canopy lights hummed gently above thick clouds of gnats. He muttered something strange and incomprehensible to the bucket. A few of them began to twist and writhe against each other. Behind him, the swarm of gnats diminished, falling dead to the warm pavement. Out back by the locked restrooms, the gas station clerk stole a brief minute to light a cigarette and pour a pack of cheese-filled pretzel bites into his mouth between drags. He admired how the smoke looked wafting away from his black nails. Randy resealed the bucket and set it onto the pleather passenger seat. He slid into the car, setting the energy drink between his legs. He cracked the tab with one hand, the other turning the key until the car came alive. Engine rumbling, he turned back onto the empty highway, windows down, in search of a way out of the dust.