A/N: Thanks for tuning in! My special thanks go out to Betz88 for her insights and encouragement.
"Now"
Autumn was good for business, a fact he put down to the brilliant foliage and the cooler temperatures. This time of year cast its spell over the TV addicted morons from the city, as if by wizardry, transforming them into nature lovers. The instant the newscasters started spouting those sappy, happy fall foliage reports, the idiot brigade took it as a cue to pile into their SUVs, Escalades or Mercedes and tool down these backroads to witness the wonder of Mother Nature's majesty. He could sense them coming from miles away. Through their windshields, their expressions would all be the same, all soft and stupid and...overwhelmed.
Hell, he wanted to tell them, if you've seen one bright orange leaf, you've seen them all. Really.
But that was okay...really, because when autumn officially arrived it was also the sign for him to a) raise his prices twenty five percent and b) set a fire in the woodstove. The morons loved the smell of wood smoke, their expressions sickly sweet and dreamy as they leaned against their cars, sucked down a soda and watched that smoke drift from his dilapidated chimney. Dopes. But hey, as long as they stopped, gassed up, bought a Nehi and beef jerky, what did he care what got them off?
He sat in his rickety wooden chair beneath the tattered orange awning of his store. His store. He called it Rest Stop because that's what it was. A place to set a spell, y'all come back now, ya hear? Crandall didn't like the name change but, hell, Crandall threw the shithole in his lap, which meant Crandall didn't have a whole lot to say about it anymore. Signed the papers with a shaky hand as he wept, his tears smearing the signature on Transference of Ownership papers.
Here you go, Greg. Man, I'm sorry. I owe you. I'm sorry, I'm so...
Greg let out a grunt at the memory, then switched gears to growl along with Buddy Guy on the boombox. Damn right he's got the blues, from his head down to his shoes. Damn right, Buddy.
Second go round for this CD today. It was so good, like warm balm on a muscle pull. It brought to mind that shithole bar in Maine, the last stop on the east coast trek with Crandall, the night before the accident.
They played a set, then sat in with the house band, Crandall on bass, Greg at the ancient Baldwin with its yellow keys and squeaky pedals. He could still smell the beer, feel the scotch burn a smooth path down his throat. He wondered again (fleetingly) why he let Crandall convince him to head back that night instead of staying holed up in the back room and sleeping off the high. It was all because of a woman. It was always because of a woman.
With a groan, he hoisted his right leg up using two hands, and eased it onto his makeshift ottoman: a large gray brick.
The morons who gassed up in the summer were different than the ones burdening him these days. The summer brought the rabble, the loud, belligerent ones who thought they could challenge him, maybe steal a drink or a gallon of gas. It happened once.
He never thought he would be a victim. He was too tough, too ornery, too crafty, usually able to put punks down with a leer and a few well chosen retorts. He had the look of an older guy who had been around the block a few too many times. His brow was wide, eyes were large, deep set and sharp as blue steel. A slovenliness he inherited from Crandall kept his graying brown hair long in the back, sticking up in tufts on top. When the mood struck he tamed it by pulling it back into a short ponytail with any old rubber band he could find. His distaste for shaving gave him the stubble cheeked look of a street bum. He was slim, tall and lanky, had a drawer full of worn jeans and t-shirts he procured from the Goodwill store.
The diamond stud in his right earlobe and Nike sneakers were his only excesses. But even they had their purpose. The jewelry got the old codgers peeved, while unnerving the kids. The quality footwear made him feel good. If he had to limp around, he might as well do it in style.
No one knew what to make of him, which was how he liked it.
Yeah, he looked feisty enough so that no one would mess with him. But he was also, on occasion, too immersed in the bottle and his painkillers to keep the show going, especially when business was slow. He was extremely blitzed that early summer evening five grungy kids drove up in the rattling, rust mottled pickup. They snapped Greg's cane in half before quietly herding him behind his cash desk to gag him, kick him in the ribs and tie him up. Twelve gallons of gas from the single pump, two hundred dollars from the register, and five cases of beer left with them that night.
It was the first and last time Greg would allow himself to be victimized. An elderly couple found him, untied the ropes with shaking, arthritic fingers. They wanted to call the police but he convinced them not to. His brother was a cop, he lied, he would handle this. After they left, he locked the doors, hauled himself up to the apartment over the store that smelled like sweat, heat, ink and dust, and downed a pint of scotch. He slept for twelve hours and never told anyone what happened.
Not even Lisa.
But he had a pistol now, a Rohrbaugh R9. The nine millimeter fit comfortably in his pocket; it had a nice weight. It was his insurance, giving him back the courage he thought he had lost that August night.
He had no neighbors out here on the New Jersey backroad. Five miles thataway was Princeton, two miles over yonder was the highway. Straight ahead were grasslands that turned yellow in the summer, green in the spring, and shit brown in the fall. Sometimes he would leave his perch in front of the Rest Stop, lock the door and mount his bike. Then he would drive, sometimes aimlessly, just to lose himself in sensation: the bike roaring like an unchained beast beneath him, the wind rushing at him, like a child's overenthusiastic embrace.
Other times he followed the road a few miles to Princeton, where he would treat himself to a movie and a slice. If the mood struck, he might park at the far end of the Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital's parking lot, wait for Lisa to leave work, then roar to a stop by her T-Bird, his visor pulled over his eyes.
"Ride, baby?" he would growl softly, his voice sand over satin.
She flashed him an exasperated look as she pulled open the driver side door. But she could never hide that little smirk of expectancy, that heat.
"Miss Prim and Proper," he would purr in her ear as she moaned, bucking her hips beneath him.
Yeah...
His head jerked up. Two yuppie yokels were pushing themselves out of their Volvo. They smoothed the flat of their palms over their casual wear, then strolled the dirt matted ground surrounding the gas pump. They had been on their journey for quite some time, judging by their tired frowns and the way the guy planted his hands on his hips and swiveled his torso from side to side. His back cracked as he sighed. The brunette rolled her eyes, but he didn't seem to care. He was a tall, strapping tennis pro type, who now hitched a brow at Greg, snapped his fingers, then jerked a macho 'impress the lady' thumb at the gas pump.
"Self serve," Greg told him.
"Fill 'er up," the guy bellowed, heading toward the store. "Wash the windshield down too."
"Self serve," Greg said again. "And I left a squeegee in the pail by the pump," he winked, "just for you.
"I said-"
Thwap! Greg barred the entrance with his cane.
"You don't want my business?" The guy gestured angrily at the barrier.
"I'm just stating the house rules. After all, you are my guests."
"Henry," The woman tugged on tennis pro's sleeve. "the man is a cripple."
"Yeah, so? I just need to fill up my tank. Is that so diff-"
"You out for a secret little rendezvous, champ?" Greg jutted his chin toward Henry's hand. "I see a tan line where a wedding ring should be. Your lady love's not wearing a ring at all. A woman never forgets to wear her ring."
The couple exchanged a worried look.
"Oops, hope you didn't leave your ring at home, champ." Greg chuckled, tapping his chin with one finger. "Ah, what a greeting you'll get when you finally return from your 'business trip'. Of course the make up sex might be worth it."
"Let's go." Tennis pro placed a slightly tremulous hand on his lady love's sleeve.
"I'm thirsty. Can I buy a drink?" she asked Greg, her eyes wide and pleading.
"Of course," Greg raised the cane like one half of a drawbridge. With a slow grin, he watched them enter, then sighed, leaning on the cane to push himself to his feet. This could be fun. He took one lurching step toward the door then froze. The familiar sound of that motor winding down caused him to turn to see...
Lisa.
He whipped round again and limp marched lively through the doorway. "Attention shoppers," he yelled, startling the pair who were perusing the Snapple case. "Please bring your final purchases to the desk." The tip of his cane thunked against the hardwood as he rounded the counter, his eyes steady on the T-Bird out the window. It was now parked by the pumps.
"It's closing time!"
Henry's woman brought up three bottles of Lemon Ice Tea and a bag of pita chips. She dug in her purse, paid for the snacks and added a twenty to fill the tank with Premium.
"Thanks." Greg winked at the two of them. "Have fun pumpin'.'"
Muttering something dour and unintelligible, Henry allowed himself to be led to the gas pump.
At the same time, Lisa was pouring herself out of the driver's side of the Bird. First came the black heels, then those long, long legs, the skirt billowing up to reveal one creamy thigh, nice tight sweater stretching across the landscape of her curves, her boobs. It was a game; she knew he was watching.
At the same time, Henry Tennis Pro was filling his tank, surreptitiously giving Lisa the eye.
Not a chance, pal. Greg smiled gently, thinking about her perfume and how she liked to trail those long wine colored nails down his back. His smile widened as his jeans tightened, quite rightly around his crotch.
Yeah...it's always about the woman.