BRONWYN IS THE first to give voice to what we’re all thinking: that this is boring, our trip was a bust and we may as well head back home.
“Yeah.” Dom lights a smoke. “Maybe we should’ve come down on a weekend. Weeknights are always sucky for trying to score or find a party.”
I know it’s an excuse. Anyone could score acid in a college town full of hippies if they really wanted to. We didn’t try. We didn’t want it bad enough and didn’t care about wanting. We all knew it before we began walking down the highway earlier tonight, but no one was going to admit it. We just didn’t want to go home, where we would be surrounded by what we truly are and all that we pretended to be, facing what we might never reach.
Home never has enough distractions, only walls and mirrors.
I turn and look at the clock on the wall inside the store. “You think the buses are still running?”
Bronwyn shakes her head. “Nah. They stopped like, an hour ago. I sure as fuck don’t want to hitchhike all the way back. All the crazies and rapists are out now.”
I consider telling Bronwyn that the crazies and rapists are out all the time, but I don’t want to be a bummer for anyone right now.
“We could walk to the bus station. They’ll let you sleep on the benches,” Dom says. “The hobos are cool. Then we can get the first bus in the morning.”
“It’s kind of far,” Bronwyn yawns.
“Well, let’s just start walking.” I’m tired of sitting in front of a convenience store. Every time I look inside, the guy behind the counter is staring at us. Or maybe he’s staring past us, into the night, but I feel like a blemish on his view of the parking lot and would rather be where no one will notice me.
“Hold up.” Dominic reaches into his pocket. “Let’s count our cash again. Maybe we have enough for a taxi.”
“Dude. Taxis are expensive. That’ll cost way too much.” Shaking her head, Bronwyn reaches into her pocket anyway.
As we’re digging into our pockets, we’re thrown into a spotlight. Headlights glare in my peripheral vision. Bronwyn and Dom squint. A gleaming, dark blue Nova pulls up right where we’re standing, the front bumper almost touching Bronwyn’s legs.
“Jesus,” she says in a low voice. “They can’t see us standing here, or what?”
Two guys who look to be a few years older than the three of us step out. Both of them stare at us as they walk past. The expression on their faces, I’ve seen it before. It’s the same expression anyone gets on their face when someone else in the room farts and they’ve been hit by an unexpected foul stench.
We add up what’s left of our dollars and coins.
“Okay. That’s exactly jack shit.” Dom flicks his cigarette butt out into the parking lot. “But, maybe it’ll get us part of the way. We can just tell him to drive us until the money runs out.”
I consider this, not totally opposed to it. “Well, do you think we’ll end up very far? Maybe it’s not worth it if we only get a mile up the highway and have to wander around in the dark until morning with all the crazies and rapists.”
“I dunno.” Dom looks up, past me. The bell on the door behind me rings. I turn around and see the two guys with the Nova and bright headlights coming out of the store, opening the plastic twist caps on their bottles of soda.
“Hey,” Dom says.
“Hey.” The driver’s expression of contempt is replaced by amusement.
“Hey, um… you guys wouldn’t happen to have a couple bucks? We’re trying to scrounge together enough to get a taxi back—”
The passenger laughs.
“Fuck off, loser,” Driver says. He flicks his bottle cap at us.
“Jeez, we were just asking,” I say. “You don’t have to be a dick about it.”
He shoves me. Not hard, but enough to make me stumble backward into Bronwyn and Dom.
“Shut up, skank.”
Passenger laughs and opens his door. He pulls a bottle of something from his pocket and pours some of it into his bottle of soda. “You know, if you little pieces of shit got off your loser asses and got some fucking jobs, you wouldn’t have to bother people with your begging.”
Driver mumbles, “Fucking losers.”
“Hey! Punks don’t work!” Dom is shouting, but his tone is all amusement.
They slam their doors and drive out of the lot, making sure to screech the tires and spray us with tiny bits of parking lot, because there’s really no other way for them to punctuate their statement than by showing off.
Bronwyn shakes her head. “Idiots. I have a job. Do they think bagging groceries can buy cars like that?”
“They don’t think,” Dom says. “They don’t have to.”
Bronwyn looks at him, squints and jerks her head back. “Punks don't work?”
“What?” Dom shrugs. “I thought it was funny.”