California Cross
A Stone Family Story
Then I had nearly three hours without a single customer walking through the door. I ate my blueberries and I felt each one pop between my back teeth. Jesus Lord have mercy on me! I clicked the buttons on the till and I spun the loose handle on the draw and then I had to refit it when it fell off, and of course that’s when a customer walked in.
“Evenin’ Darlin’. Pump three please”, the lone man said.
It’s funny, to me, when they give a pump number when I can clearly see they’re the only fucking car on the forecourt.
“Sure. Thirty pounds please.”
“Card please.”
“Got a member’s card?”
“No.”
“Want one?”
“I’m okay, darlin’.”
“Okay” - Thank God! Thank you Jesus Lord!
Beep!
“That’s all gone through, thank you.”
“Thanks love, bye.”
He drove off and I saw that his car was one of these new SUV types. Bores me silly. I spun the handle again and I popped more blueberries. I scrolled my phone and the shift was over and the neon pang of the pricing tower kept my pupils nice and enlarged for the drive home. Jesus Lord have mercy on me.
Then I was there again, and now I have my sketchbook. I’ve been trying to create little characters that I hope to put on posters, t-shirts, that kind of thing, sell them online even. I give each one a little background and a story and I make pretend that there’s already people who give a shit about them. They’re mostly just plain silly, really. But it kills me and it kills time and God knows I need to. Puts my damn art degree to use, or at least reminds me of the fact I’ve got one. There’s no space on the counter to put the book so I have to balance it on top of my right knee and try not to fall off the backless spinny chair that’s damn near kaput.
Two young girls came in and they giggled at me and asked if we sold any cocktail ‘type bits’. I told them to go and look for themselves which was maybe a bit too rude but fuck it ‘cus they got the message and lord forgive me but they were just plain horrid. I knew they were bitches the moment I saw their silly little Fiat kangarooing its way to the pump. I carried on sketching as they browsed and giggled and whispered.
“Oh my god babe I absolutely love your earrings”. I looked up and saw the shorter of the two girls speaking to me.
“Thanks.”
“Where did you get them?”, she said and then sniggered and whispered something in the ear of the other girl, before they both giggled. I said I couldn’t remember, and I gave them both the usual script until I’d got them outta my sight and back into their silly little bitch car.
I watched the liquid in the slushy machine turn and turn and turn. Man made shades of pink and blue. Turn and turn and turn and turn. Little bubbles within shooting along the glass as the machine whined and my eyes became fixed and my head ached and the machine turned brightly and constantly. Its noise lived in my dreams. I heard it when I was home and my eyes were closed but its pinks and its blues were too saturated for the mind to comprehend. It clunked and churned and span and span. Deep within its bowels is where I will go to rest my head. Life is good with people and the liquid smashed into the glass. My eyes turn and the liquid mixes. Jesus Lord had mercy on me. The Great Wave Off Kanagawa made with BerryBurst as the blue liquid tide crashed into the glass over and over. I notice every detail. All I hear is the whirring and the churning as my sleepy eyes reflect the colours, Jesus Lord have mercy on me. Outside the moon is full, and the LED forecourt oppresses a starless night. I look to my right knee and I scratch meaningless shapes into the paper. Deep enough to trace my finger in its wake. When my exile is over I will close my eyes and I will at last see the blue and the pink truthfully in all of their synthetic glory. Jesus Lord have mercy on me.
I removed my earrings and put them in my clutch bag, which I got from the same place on the same day. I work the night shift alone and alone I indeed find myself.
California Cross is a lonely place.
I split my fringe and I can feel a spot on my forehead that’s ready to pop. My dirty blonde hair feels greyed with brake dust and petrol fumes. I consider laying my head down on the desk but the sound of a car appears outside so I close my fringe and I forget the spot and my desire to sleep for a long time. I turn on the airplane mode deep within my neural cavities and again I am at one with the solitude of California Cross and my existence as a piece within it.
A passenger stays in the car and through its open window I hear the reverberations of a guitar riff that makes me sink and sink into my chair, but I stick to the script, pump two, got a membership, want a membership, get a membership, cash or card, thanks, sometimes bye. I do not ask for the song name, and again I am alone. I pop the spot and the blood runs down the ridge of my nose. I wipe it clear for I am alone. Jesus Lord have mercy on me for I am alone.
At 4am each night Callum arrives and I am not alone. He brings the new magazines and newspapers. I watch him, every night, as he uniformly stacks them along the aisle. I watch as he prolongs how long he takes to stack the dirty magazines. I very much enjoy the smell of a freshly opened box of newspapers.
“Busy night?” He says to me and smiles.
“Not so much”. I look at him and tap my nose and make sure there is no more blood.
His visits are the only point each night that the whirring stops.
He sits atop the counter and bounces one of the inflatable beach balls that we sell, and I stroke his hair as he is doing so.
“Where are your lovely little turtle earrings Clarry?”
“Oh. I took them off. Some mean girls came in earlier and they were gossiping about them behind my back.”
“Pfft, just ignore them C. Who gives a shit? I love those earrings and I know you do too.”
I shrug my shoulders and I glare deeper into a small stain on his left collar. California Cross is lonely except for when I am with him.
“Look at this shit,” he pointed to the cover of some history magazine, “they think it might be Jesus. Some old nuclear dude is saying that it’s likely the only explanation.”
“What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“The face!”, he gasped, “on the cloth. Look! They suppose it might be the very cloth Jesus was buried in. And the one he was wrapped in when he was resurrected. Look.”
“I doubt it.”
“No, look. I’ve been down the rabbit hole, I just know you’ll love it, believe me. They did like carbon dating or whatever the fuck, this isn’t just some batshit conspiracy. Apparently loads of scientists are legit just confused as fuck about it.”
“The Shroud of Turin”, I recite the headline and I look at the face within the cloth.
“I’ve been waiting all night to show it to you, given, you know - all that shit we spoke about last week.”
Then I look at Callum’s face and I stroke his hair as he closes his eyes.
“Cool. Leave it on the counter and I’ll read it properly.”
I met Callum on my first day working here. He was wearing an oversized grey sweater that he’s since given to me. Every night I wait for him. California Cross is a desolate place. Because of the frequency of his visits I have become accustomed to the time spent with him, become accustomed to thinking about him in the time spent without him. God curse the customers who walk in as I stroke his hair as he strokes my ear. God curse the smell of petrol and the neon lights and God curse Cali Cross and God curse the starless nights that deny us the chance to share a view together. He tells me he needs to ‘crack on’ and I trace the growing crow’s feet wrinkles beside his gorgeous hazel eyes, and I realise we are ageing together in California Cross and that we are alone together in California Cross.
He leaves and I am really alone again, and the whirring of the slushy machine is persistent and loud again.
I read the magazine and I learn all about the cloth.
I learn all about the cloth.
I learn all about the cloth.
And I close my eyes and finally I see the neon pink and the plastic blue, and I hear the whirring and I feel Callum in my heart as it beats, as I listen to the waves crash against the glass and churn and trap and shelter the faux-vibrant liquid as it spins and turns in unison with that quickening heartbeat. And now I see it when I rest my head on the counter, and I slowly drift off into a deep sleep. And through the haze of my darkened eyelids I see the face from the cloth standing atop the boulders of the pink and blue ocean, and he shouts down to me that at last my exile is my own, and I dream, and I feel the blood again on my forehead, on my nose, on my top lip, and the tears traverse my cheeks and Jesus Lord have mercy on me and Jesus Lord bless the eternal loneliness of California Cross.
And alas, the noise of a car pulling up calls my attention to the rising sun.