It’s like living in an oven. It must be at least 90 degrees in here. The windows are closed, air conditioning off, and the back doors have the child locks are on. Safety first, right?
I’m drenched in sweat while my arms are prickling with the fiery feeling of blood rushing back into them. I poke at each one savoring the in between feeling of feeling and not feeling. After stripping off my polo, leaving behind a soaked undershirt, I clamber into the front seat.
Climbing out of the passenger door I discover that I am in a gas station parking lot.
Where am I? Where are my parents?
The breeze feels amazing on my dripping skin.
So thirsty. Have to pee. is all what comes to mind as my skin dries with each passing of wind.
As I make way to the tiny convenience store a sign directs me that the restrooms are located around back. Handwritten in red marker – or blood – is a sign that reads, “IF YOU ARE NOT PUMPING GAS THEN YOU ARE OUT ON YOUR ASS RESTROOMS ARE FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY.” I swear every town in these parts of New York are equal blends of intelligent people and hicks that never, have or will, leave town.
Opening the door brings the oppressive stench of both fresh and rotten feces pouring out. Flies swarm in and out in droves. As the door swings open further the jerry-rigged bottom hinge falls off, the door hitting the ground with a thud. At least I won’t have to prop the door open to not die from the smell.