A lonely island of light, an oasis on the darkened desert highway risen from the night. A pair of headlights mount the western horizon, breaking the darkness. A gas station like a porch light drawing a moth to it, the solitary car pulls up. A man emerges, beginning the ritual of refueling. He pulls the handle on the nozzle, the pump clicks once and silence. A voice from the loudspeaker says that the pumps are out of order. The man looks around him, surprised by the voice of the god of the gas station, and sees a skinny teenager behind an inch of plexiglas. He approaches the window.
“I'm sorry sir,” the boy says, “the pumps are out of order.”
“But I have no gas,” he replies. “I need gas.”
“I'm sorry sir, the tanker is coming at 7am. You can wait if you need to.”
“How far away is the next gas station?”
“About 50 miles east.”
“Then I guess I'll have to wait.”
He returns to his car, a beaten up 1981 Corvette, and reclines the seat, listening to the radio.
A pair of headlights break the night in the west, a dusty '04 LeSabre rolls into the gas station. A man emerges, and begins the ritual of refueling. The man in the Corvette looks with a knowing smile as the voice echoes through the loudspeakers.
“I'm sorry sir, the pumps are out of order.”
The man from the LeSabre approaches the window. “What do you mean, out of order?”
“I mean they don't work, sir.”
“Don't get smart with me kid, what's the problem?”
“Well, there's no gas left, sir. There's a truck coming at 7am. You can wait here till then if you need to.”
“How far away is the nearest gas station?”
“About 50 miles east, sir.”
“Damn.”
He returns to his LeSabre. The man in the Corvette rolls down his window. “Damn shame, isn't it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing in this damn country works anymore.”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
“I mean, what does it take to get some damn gas? What does it say about us all if a man can't get gas in the middle of the night?”
“I... I really don't know.”
“It's like a metaphor, isn't it? Two men on the open road in the night; it's freedom, right? Then here we are, stuck on this damn island in the night, nowhere to go. It's circumstance reigning us in. Universe, you've done it again!”
“Sure, whatever you say.”
He returns to his LeSabre and turns on the radio.
The man from the Corvette gets out, and stretches. He approaches the boy in the booth.
“Hey, kid. What's your name?”
“Um... Burt.”
“Burt? What, like Burt Reynolds?”
“Er, Bacharach, I think. My parents were big fans.”
“Jeez, that's unfortunate, kid. I'm Steve. So, what are you doing working in a dump like this in the middle of the night?”
“Well, I need money to go to college.”
“But why here?”
“I dunno.”
“So it just happened, yeah? I know how that works. There's no reason to anything that happens to us, is there? It's all just chance.”
“Um, I guess so, yeah.”
“You know so, kid. It's happened to you already, and it's gonna keep on happening to you. Don't bother looking for patterns, there won't be any.”
“I really don't--”
“Ah, forget it. You'll learn, kiddo. Nothing happens for a reason, remember that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don't call me sir.”
“Yes, sir. Uh...”
He rolls his eyes at the kid and moves to the LeSabre, knocking on the window. The man, reclining in his seat, opens his eyes and gives Steve a sideways glance. Steve mimes rolling down the window. The man in the LeSabre clenches his eyes and rolls down the window.
“Hi there!” Steve grins.
“Can I help you?”
“Not really. Just thought you might like to talk. Looks like we'll be here for a while.”
“Well, I don't. I'm very tired, and I'd like to sleep, thank you.”
“Suit yourself. I'm Steve, by the way.”
The man in the LeSabre sighs. “Harry.”
“Nice to meet you, Harry.” He thrusts his hand in the window, Harry shakes it reluctantly. “Where are you coming from, this time of night?”
“Business meeting.”
“Business meeting, eh? In Vegas?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice. What happens in Vegas, am I right?”
“Whatever you say.” Harry rolls up the window.
“Hey, wait a minute. You look familiar.”
Harry rolls down the window again. “I have one of those faces.”
“No, I mean it. What's your name again?”
“Jones. Harry Jones.”
“Harry Jones.... Where do you come from, Harry Jones?”
“San Francisco.”
“Originally?”
“I was born in Seattle.”
“No way! Me too!”
“Really? What a small world....”
“I'm serious, I know you from somewhere. Where did you go to school?”
“Yale.”
“No, no, like high school?”
“Westside.”
“Hmmm. Elementary?”
“Look, is there a point to this?”
“Wait, you didn't go to Adams Elementary, did you?”
“Yes, I did, actually.”
“Harry Jones, from Adams Elementary. No way.”
“What?”
“No freakin' way! I'm Steve! Steve Temple! We were in elementary school together.”
“You're Steve Temple? My God!”
“Harry! How are you, man?”
Harry gets out of his car, and looks Steve up and down.
“I don't believe this, Steve. How are you?”
“Hey, I've been better, but who am I to complain?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. What the hell have you been doing all these years?”
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. How about you?”
“Well, after I graduated Yale, I moved to Frisco, got a job offer and took it. Now, I'm, uh, happily married with a kid, living by the bay. Where are you living these days?”
“Well, technically, that Corvette over there.”
“Oh, right....”
“Yeah. So it sounds like you're doing pretty well for yourself?”
“You could say that, I guess. What happened to you? I mean, why are you on the road, not living anywhere?”
“I'm not sure. It's just one of those things, you know? One day, I decided to just go. Life got too complicated, I guess.”
“I know how that feels.”
“Really? 'Cos it seems to me like you've got it pretty sweet.”
Harry lays his hand on his bedroom dresser, his wife calls from the front seat of the LeSabre. A photograph drifts under his fingers, his daughter smiling through his knuckles. His wife calls again, angry this time. Harry rolls up the window of the car, the photograph slides through his fingers into a puddle of gasoline. He watches as it sinks.
“It's pretty sweet alright.”
“I dig it.”
“Still, life on the road always appealed to me. I've always wanted to just up and go, leaving everything behind.”
“It's not that easy when you have a family, though, is it?”
“No, it's not easy. I wish I were free, like you are.”
Steve watches his feet running through puddles, drops of blood mixing with the rain. Voices all around him, screaming his name in the streets in the night. The kid calls to him from the booth. Steve ignores him and keeps running through the puddles of rain and blood and gasoline. The door of the Corvette opens, and a young girl falls out. He watches her sink into the gasoline.
“It's good to be free.”
“It is.”
Silence falls. Harry fiddles with the handle of the car door. Steve looks around, and spots the kid in the booth reading a book.
“Hey, Burt in the Booth. Whatcha reading?”
“Book.”
“Yeah, smartass, what book?”
“One Hundred Years of Solitude.”
“Hm. Sounds about right for working in this place. Listen, would you get me two cups of coffee?”
“Sure.”
Steve returns to Harry, handing him a cup of coffee.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Harry's wife steps out of the LeSabre. She touches him on the arm, he shies away. She picks up the photograph of their daughter, hands it to Harry. He tries to take it, but it falls through his hand as though he were a ghost. His wife kisses him, he pulls away. She slips the photograph into his pocket; he takes it out and looks at it. His wife walks away down the highway as Harry drops the photograph of his daughter back into the puddle of gasoline.
His cellphone rings. He looks at the display, cancels the call, slips the phone back into his pocket.
“Who was that?” Stephen asks.
“Nobody.”
“It was your wife, wasn't it?”
“How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. Why didn't you answer it?”
“Didn't feel like it.”
“It's your daughter, right?”
“My daughter? What about my daughter?”
“You lost her, didn't you?”
“I... don't know what you mean.”
“You don't know what to do anymore.”
“Please!”
“Sorry, I just... I dunno. There's something--”
Burt knocks on the window of the booth. Steve looks around: Burt is holding a gun to his own head. The Corvette's horn honks; the door opens and a girl runs out of the car, towards the booth. A gunshot rings in the night, and the girl falls into a puddle of gasoline, her blood floating on top. Steve looks to Burt, holding a gun. He fires; the bullet impacts on the thick glass. The girl is drowning in blood and gasoline.
Burt's voice comes on the intercom. “You guys want more coffee?”
“Uh, no. Thanks.”
“Steve?” Harry leans on his LeSabre.
“Mm?”
“You're not just on the road, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you're running from something.”
“We're all running from something, Harry. What are you running from?”
“No, you're running from something real.”
“I don't think so.”
“What are you running from, then? If you want to get metaphorical....”
“I'm not sure. America, maybe. Everyone else.”
“Bullshit. You're a fugitive, aren't you?”
“How the hell could you know that?”
“Lucky guess. What'd you do?”
The girl sinks into the gasoline.
“Nothing, really.”
“You have to have done something.”
“I killed a guy.”
“Holy shit, Steve.”
“No, I mean, not really. Like, he was trying to kill this girl, and I saw him and I tried to stop him, and I guess I musta killed him. But I was too late, the girl was already dead. I tried CPR and all that, but he'd pretty bashed her head in. Then the cops came, and they thought I killed them both. But I didn't. I didn't, Harry, I was trying to save her.”
Harry's wife calls from the LeSabre. The Corvette's horn drones.
“I tried to save her.”
“Steve, you....”
“Look, everyone's running from something, right? You're running from your future, I'm running from my past, and Burt over there, with his book, is running from the present. Nobody's ever happy where they are.”
Harry takes the photograph from his pocket, and drops it in the puddle of gasoline. The roof of the Corvette rolls back, and the girl falls out into the puddle of gasoline.
“You need to get away from everything, Harry. You need a fresh start. You need to get away from your wife and the memory of your daughter.”
“I don't need to run from anything.”
“Of course you do. You can't deal with your daughter, and you can't deal with your wife because she reminds you too much of her.”
“Don't talk about my daughter.”
“But I'm right, aren't I, Harry? You can't hack it anymore. You can't live with the fact that you let your daughter die.”
“Don't talk about my fucking daughter!”
“Listen to me, Harry! There's nothing more you can do.”
“There's everything I can do! Who are you to tell me what I can do?”
“I know what you can do because I did it. I did everything you couldn't; everything you wish you were able to.”
“You did nothing.”
“What about your daughter, Harry?”
“I told you not to talk about my daughter! For all I know, you killed her.”
“I tried to save her!”
“You did nothing except let her die.”
“And you did nothing but get caught with your britches down. Where were you when she needed you, Harry? In your office? Hm? Trying to finish that important report?”
“Shut up.”
“Listen to me, Harry. Let her go.”
“Why don't you let her go?”
“Because I could have saved her life.”
“And you failed. So don't lecture me about doing the right thing.”
“At least I tried, goddamnit!”
“Yeah, anyone can try.”
The highway growls, tiger's-eyes lights cut the horizon. A gas tanker pulls up to the station, plugs into the pipes. Harry and Steve lean against their cars, watching the umbilical exchange. Harry swallows compulsively; Steve runs his thumb over and back across the tops of his fingers. He clenches his fist.
“Listen: everybody runs from something, Harry. I know what you're running from, and you know what I'm running from. And we both know we're running from the same thing.”
The girl lies in the puddle of gasoline next to her photograph.
“Come with me.”
Burt emerges from the booth and fills their tanks.
“Look at Burt, look at where he is. You think he's gonna be here the rest of his life? No, man, he's outta here. Burt knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it. Sure, life screwed him over now, putting him in this place in the middle of the night, but he won't be here forever. Do you want to be where you are forever, Harry?”
Burt hangs up the pumps. “It's on the house. Sorry for the delay.”
Steve touches him on the shoulder. “Thanks kid. And remember what I said: there are no coincidences.”
“I thought you said--”
“So did I.”
The girl and her photograph sink into the puddle of gasoline.
“Come with me, Harry. Get on the road and go, like you want to. Or do you want to go back to your wife, and the memory of your daughter? I know you, Harry: I know what you need.”
“Do you, do you really?”
“Of course I do. I was there with you all along.”
“All along, sure.”
“Come with me. We are connected, Harry. You and me, there's something there.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your daughter, Harry! For chrissakes, don't you get it yet? We are connected. I'm not sure how, I'm not even sure if I believe it myself, but it's there. The evidence is there.”
“What the hell do you know about anything? It's a coincidence, that's all.”
“I'm not sure it is, Harry. There's too much there, too many connections to be brushed aside.”
“I don't believe you.”
“Neither do I.”
“So what makes you so certain? What do you know about any of this?”
“I don't know! I only know that—somehow—I know you, and that you just want to screw it all and come with me.”
“I can't, Steve. I just can't. I don't understand any of this, I don't know what's going on. I just know that I can't go with you.”
“Suit yourself. But promise me that one day, you will. One day, you'll do the right thing.”
“I don't know what the right thing is anymore.”
“Ask Burt. He'll tell you.”
“You keep talking about him. What the hell does he have to do with any of this?”
Steve smiles. “Just goes to show, you never can tell what could happen in the American night. Good luck, Harry.” Steve jumps in his Corvette, speeds east down the highway into the dawn. Harry stands for a while, leaning on his LeSabre, looking toward the western horizon, towards home.
Burt returns to his booth and his book. The tanker drives away, leaving Harry alone in the gas station. He looks to Burt. Burt stands up and turns off the lights of the gas station. The rising sun glints on the pumps and the booth and the windshield of Harry's LeSabre. “The right thing.” He turns his head to the breaking dawn in the east, taking a deep breath.
He gets into his car and starts it up.
“I'm sorry sir,” the boy says, “the pumps are out of order.”
“But I have no gas,” he replies. “I need gas.”
“I'm sorry sir, the tanker is coming at 7am. You can wait if you need to.”
“How far away is the next gas station?”
“About 50 miles east.”
“Then I guess I'll have to wait.”
He returns to his car, a beaten up 1981 Corvette, and reclines the seat, listening to the radio.
A pair of headlights break the night in the west, a dusty '04 LeSabre rolls into the gas station. A man emerges, and begins the ritual of refueling. The man in the Corvette looks with a knowing smile as the voice echoes through the loudspeakers.
“I'm sorry sir, the pumps are out of order.”
The man from the LeSabre approaches the window. “What do you mean, out of order?”
“I mean they don't work, sir.”
“Don't get smart with me kid, what's the problem?”
“Well, there's no gas left, sir. There's a truck coming at 7am. You can wait here till then if you need to.”
“How far away is the nearest gas station?”
“About 50 miles east, sir.”
“Damn.”
He returns to his LeSabre. The man in the Corvette rolls down his window. “Damn shame, isn't it?”
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing in this damn country works anymore.”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
“I mean, what does it take to get some damn gas? What does it say about us all if a man can't get gas in the middle of the night?”
“I... I really don't know.”
“It's like a metaphor, isn't it? Two men on the open road in the night; it's freedom, right? Then here we are, stuck on this damn island in the night, nowhere to go. It's circumstance reigning us in. Universe, you've done it again!”
“Sure, whatever you say.”
He returns to his LeSabre and turns on the radio.
The man from the Corvette gets out, and stretches. He approaches the boy in the booth.
“Hey, kid. What's your name?”
“Um... Burt.”
“Burt? What, like Burt Reynolds?”
“Er, Bacharach, I think. My parents were big fans.”
“Jeez, that's unfortunate, kid. I'm Steve. So, what are you doing working in a dump like this in the middle of the night?”
“Well, I need money to go to college.”
“But why here?”
“I dunno.”
“So it just happened, yeah? I know how that works. There's no reason to anything that happens to us, is there? It's all just chance.”
“Um, I guess so, yeah.”
“You know so, kid. It's happened to you already, and it's gonna keep on happening to you. Don't bother looking for patterns, there won't be any.”
“I really don't--”
“Ah, forget it. You'll learn, kiddo. Nothing happens for a reason, remember that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And don't call me sir.”
“Yes, sir. Uh...”
He rolls his eyes at the kid and moves to the LeSabre, knocking on the window. The man, reclining in his seat, opens his eyes and gives Steve a sideways glance. Steve mimes rolling down the window. The man in the LeSabre clenches his eyes and rolls down the window.
“Hi there!” Steve grins.
“Can I help you?”
“Not really. Just thought you might like to talk. Looks like we'll be here for a while.”
“Well, I don't. I'm very tired, and I'd like to sleep, thank you.”
“Suit yourself. I'm Steve, by the way.”
The man in the LeSabre sighs. “Harry.”
“Nice to meet you, Harry.” He thrusts his hand in the window, Harry shakes it reluctantly. “Where are you coming from, this time of night?”
“Business meeting.”
“Business meeting, eh? In Vegas?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice. What happens in Vegas, am I right?”
“Whatever you say.” Harry rolls up the window.
“Hey, wait a minute. You look familiar.”
Harry rolls down the window again. “I have one of those faces.”
“No, I mean it. What's your name again?”
“Jones. Harry Jones.”
“Harry Jones.... Where do you come from, Harry Jones?”
“San Francisco.”
“Originally?”
“I was born in Seattle.”
“No way! Me too!”
“Really? What a small world....”
“I'm serious, I know you from somewhere. Where did you go to school?”
“Yale.”
“No, no, like high school?”
“Westside.”
“Hmmm. Elementary?”
“Look, is there a point to this?”
“Wait, you didn't go to Adams Elementary, did you?”
“Yes, I did, actually.”
“Harry Jones, from Adams Elementary. No way.”
“What?”
“No freakin' way! I'm Steve! Steve Temple! We were in elementary school together.”
“You're Steve Temple? My God!”
“Harry! How are you, man?”
Harry gets out of his car, and looks Steve up and down.
“I don't believe this, Steve. How are you?”
“Hey, I've been better, but who am I to complain?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. What the hell have you been doing all these years?”
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. How about you?”
“Well, after I graduated Yale, I moved to Frisco, got a job offer and took it. Now, I'm, uh, happily married with a kid, living by the bay. Where are you living these days?”
“Well, technically, that Corvette over there.”
“Oh, right....”
“Yeah. So it sounds like you're doing pretty well for yourself?”
“You could say that, I guess. What happened to you? I mean, why are you on the road, not living anywhere?”
“I'm not sure. It's just one of those things, you know? One day, I decided to just go. Life got too complicated, I guess.”
“I know how that feels.”
“Really? 'Cos it seems to me like you've got it pretty sweet.”
Harry lays his hand on his bedroom dresser, his wife calls from the front seat of the LeSabre. A photograph drifts under his fingers, his daughter smiling through his knuckles. His wife calls again, angry this time. Harry rolls up the window of the car, the photograph slides through his fingers into a puddle of gasoline. He watches as it sinks.
“It's pretty sweet alright.”
“I dig it.”
“Still, life on the road always appealed to me. I've always wanted to just up and go, leaving everything behind.”
“It's not that easy when you have a family, though, is it?”
“No, it's not easy. I wish I were free, like you are.”
Steve watches his feet running through puddles, drops of blood mixing with the rain. Voices all around him, screaming his name in the streets in the night. The kid calls to him from the booth. Steve ignores him and keeps running through the puddles of rain and blood and gasoline. The door of the Corvette opens, and a young girl falls out. He watches her sink into the gasoline.
“It's good to be free.”
“It is.”
Silence falls. Harry fiddles with the handle of the car door. Steve looks around, and spots the kid in the booth reading a book.
“Hey, Burt in the Booth. Whatcha reading?”
“Book.”
“Yeah, smartass, what book?”
“One Hundred Years of Solitude.”
“Hm. Sounds about right for working in this place. Listen, would you get me two cups of coffee?”
“Sure.”
Steve returns to Harry, handing him a cup of coffee.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Harry's wife steps out of the LeSabre. She touches him on the arm, he shies away. She picks up the photograph of their daughter, hands it to Harry. He tries to take it, but it falls through his hand as though he were a ghost. His wife kisses him, he pulls away. She slips the photograph into his pocket; he takes it out and looks at it. His wife walks away down the highway as Harry drops the photograph of his daughter back into the puddle of gasoline.
His cellphone rings. He looks at the display, cancels the call, slips the phone back into his pocket.
“Who was that?” Stephen asks.
“Nobody.”
“It was your wife, wasn't it?”
“How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. Why didn't you answer it?”
“Didn't feel like it.”
“It's your daughter, right?”
“My daughter? What about my daughter?”
“You lost her, didn't you?”
“I... don't know what you mean.”
“You don't know what to do anymore.”
“Please!”
“Sorry, I just... I dunno. There's something--”
Burt knocks on the window of the booth. Steve looks around: Burt is holding a gun to his own head. The Corvette's horn honks; the door opens and a girl runs out of the car, towards the booth. A gunshot rings in the night, and the girl falls into a puddle of gasoline, her blood floating on top. Steve looks to Burt, holding a gun. He fires; the bullet impacts on the thick glass. The girl is drowning in blood and gasoline.
Burt's voice comes on the intercom. “You guys want more coffee?”
“Uh, no. Thanks.”
“Steve?” Harry leans on his LeSabre.
“Mm?”
“You're not just on the road, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you're running from something.”
“We're all running from something, Harry. What are you running from?”
“No, you're running from something real.”
“I don't think so.”
“What are you running from, then? If you want to get metaphorical....”
“I'm not sure. America, maybe. Everyone else.”
“Bullshit. You're a fugitive, aren't you?”
“How the hell could you know that?”
“Lucky guess. What'd you do?”
The girl sinks into the gasoline.
“Nothing, really.”
“You have to have done something.”
“I killed a guy.”
“Holy shit, Steve.”
“No, I mean, not really. Like, he was trying to kill this girl, and I saw him and I tried to stop him, and I guess I musta killed him. But I was too late, the girl was already dead. I tried CPR and all that, but he'd pretty bashed her head in. Then the cops came, and they thought I killed them both. But I didn't. I didn't, Harry, I was trying to save her.”
Harry's wife calls from the LeSabre. The Corvette's horn drones.
“I tried to save her.”
“Steve, you....”
“Look, everyone's running from something, right? You're running from your future, I'm running from my past, and Burt over there, with his book, is running from the present. Nobody's ever happy where they are.”
Harry takes the photograph from his pocket, and drops it in the puddle of gasoline. The roof of the Corvette rolls back, and the girl falls out into the puddle of gasoline.
“You need to get away from everything, Harry. You need a fresh start. You need to get away from your wife and the memory of your daughter.”
“I don't need to run from anything.”
“Of course you do. You can't deal with your daughter, and you can't deal with your wife because she reminds you too much of her.”
“Don't talk about my daughter.”
“But I'm right, aren't I, Harry? You can't hack it anymore. You can't live with the fact that you let your daughter die.”
“Don't talk about my fucking daughter!”
“Listen to me, Harry! There's nothing more you can do.”
“There's everything I can do! Who are you to tell me what I can do?”
“I know what you can do because I did it. I did everything you couldn't; everything you wish you were able to.”
“You did nothing.”
“What about your daughter, Harry?”
“I told you not to talk about my daughter! For all I know, you killed her.”
“I tried to save her!”
“You did nothing except let her die.”
“And you did nothing but get caught with your britches down. Where were you when she needed you, Harry? In your office? Hm? Trying to finish that important report?”
“Shut up.”
“Listen to me, Harry. Let her go.”
“Why don't you let her go?”
“Because I could have saved her life.”
“And you failed. So don't lecture me about doing the right thing.”
“At least I tried, goddamnit!”
“Yeah, anyone can try.”
The highway growls, tiger's-eyes lights cut the horizon. A gas tanker pulls up to the station, plugs into the pipes. Harry and Steve lean against their cars, watching the umbilical exchange. Harry swallows compulsively; Steve runs his thumb over and back across the tops of his fingers. He clenches his fist.
“Listen: everybody runs from something, Harry. I know what you're running from, and you know what I'm running from. And we both know we're running from the same thing.”
The girl lies in the puddle of gasoline next to her photograph.
“Come with me.”
Burt emerges from the booth and fills their tanks.
“Look at Burt, look at where he is. You think he's gonna be here the rest of his life? No, man, he's outta here. Burt knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it. Sure, life screwed him over now, putting him in this place in the middle of the night, but he won't be here forever. Do you want to be where you are forever, Harry?”
Burt hangs up the pumps. “It's on the house. Sorry for the delay.”
Steve touches him on the shoulder. “Thanks kid. And remember what I said: there are no coincidences.”
“I thought you said--”
“So did I.”
The girl and her photograph sink into the puddle of gasoline.
“Come with me, Harry. Get on the road and go, like you want to. Or do you want to go back to your wife, and the memory of your daughter? I know you, Harry: I know what you need.”
“Do you, do you really?”
“Of course I do. I was there with you all along.”
“All along, sure.”
“Come with me. We are connected, Harry. You and me, there's something there.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your daughter, Harry! For chrissakes, don't you get it yet? We are connected. I'm not sure how, I'm not even sure if I believe it myself, but it's there. The evidence is there.”
“What the hell do you know about anything? It's a coincidence, that's all.”
“I'm not sure it is, Harry. There's too much there, too many connections to be brushed aside.”
“I don't believe you.”
“Neither do I.”
“So what makes you so certain? What do you know about any of this?”
“I don't know! I only know that—somehow—I know you, and that you just want to screw it all and come with me.”
“I can't, Steve. I just can't. I don't understand any of this, I don't know what's going on. I just know that I can't go with you.”
“Suit yourself. But promise me that one day, you will. One day, you'll do the right thing.”
“I don't know what the right thing is anymore.”
“Ask Burt. He'll tell you.”
“You keep talking about him. What the hell does he have to do with any of this?”
Steve smiles. “Just goes to show, you never can tell what could happen in the American night. Good luck, Harry.” Steve jumps in his Corvette, speeds east down the highway into the dawn. Harry stands for a while, leaning on his LeSabre, looking toward the western horizon, towards home.
Burt returns to his booth and his book. The tanker drives away, leaving Harry alone in the gas station. He looks to Burt. Burt stands up and turns off the lights of the gas station. The rising sun glints on the pumps and the booth and the windshield of Harry's LeSabre. “The right thing.” He turns his head to the breaking dawn in the east, taking a deep breath.
He gets into his car and starts it up.
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