Three Strikes

1 • A Far Cry from a Happy Homecoming

Lennon Walker

The price owed at the gas pump is a sight that makes me sick. It just keeps rolling to a higher and higher amount, and as much as I would love to stop at $42.67, I'll have to top it off if I want to get all my shit home. Knowing that I'm only on my second of three trips, I press down on the handle again, allowing my Grand Cherokee to continue its assault on my bank account. The elderly woman on the other side of the pump catches my eye roll and shoots me a look of distaste. That eye roll wasn't even directed at her. Maybe I should be used to it after all these years, but I'm in no mood for a stranger's judgement today. Leaning against my red SUV that is jammed full of nearly everything I own, I begin to run my thumb over the lone, tiny braid that I keep hidden in my long hair as I wait.

This trip was so much easier when I left. Now I'm bringing back double what I originally left with. One trip turning into three blows, especially when you're driving across Nebraska to get home. It's quite possibly the most boring drive anyone could suffer through. Seeing a lone tree brought me excitement today—pathetic. Why someone would choose to live here is beyond me. Yet, here I am, crawling my ass back home just like everyone knew I would.

With a loud click, my SUV is full, and I release the nozzle from my tank. Wet gasoline drips down my legs to my favorite purple Nike trainers, causing me to curse aloud as I slam the nozzle back to the pump. The woman across from me scoffs at my unladylike word choice, immediately sending me into an even more pissy mood.

"Go fuck yourself." I finally greet her with a condescending smile as I grab my receipt and shove it into the tiny pocket of my jean shorts. "I wasn't even talking to you."

She turns away from me with her own eye roll. I was always taught to respect my elders, but if she's going to judge me first, I consider my response only fair. Like she would never curse after spilling gasoline down herself? I'm going to have to smell it for another hour until I can shower at my parent's house. Knowing me, I won't even bother to shower, because I don't want to stay in the house that long before getting back on the road.

"Bitch," I mutter, grabbing a few of the complimentary paper towels to swipe the mess from my skin and shoes.

I know I'm being one too. I know that I just took out my frustration of moving back home out on a lady that only rolled her eyes and huffed. Get a grip on yourself, Len. I toss the used paper towels into the trash beside the pump and stand to wait for the lady to turn around again. When she does, her eyes widen and scale me.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you. I'm having a bad day. I didn't mean to pass it on to you."

Her eyes narrow as she opens the door to her Buick. "Did your mother ever tell you that you dress like a tramp?"

And... she's a bitch. Totally called it.

"Yes, she has actually," I answer honestly. "I take back that apology. You and my mother can both go fuck yourselves."

When her mouth falls open, I beam wickedly and take that as my cue that my work here is done for the day. I turn my heel and enter my Cherokee to pull back onto the highway in a sourer mood than when I left it. Glancing down at my clothes, I sigh. Short jean shorts and a low-cut, black tank top hardly make me a tramp. My bedpost has one notch in it—a regrettable notch, but just one. That hag has probably had more men between her wrinkled legs than myself.

There I go again, assuming, being just as bad as her.

Fuck me. I need a nap.

I sink into my seat and toss my head back against the back of it. One more hour until I'm home. Then I get to repeat the entire process again tomorrow.