CrispyPastas

This happened about four years ago. You may have read about some of these events in the news, but you wouldn’t have seen my story. I was working graveyard at a gas station out on the highway between my college town and the interstate.  It was a pretty sweet gig; we got ten customers an hour at most.  I spent most of the time studying for the LSAT.   The station was like any gas station in America: four pumps out front, covered by a canopy that connected to the little-box convenience store at the back.  There were big panel windows along the front of the store.  The register was situated perpendicular to one of those windows so I could easily monitor the pumps.  It was floodlit for maximum visibility, but that created this eerie effect where I couldn’t see anything beyond the fueling bay.  It seemed like cars emerged from out of the void when they pulled into the station.  This was western North Carolina, so everything around the station was p...

  Phoebe rushed into the store, stopping to clock in before she put down her purse. She had her phone out and it hadn’t rung–yet–even though she was a full forty minutes late. She didn’t know how it had happened since she programmed all her alarms a week ahead, but she had woken up in a sweat and checked the time, then brushed her teeth and ran out the door. The relief she felt a moment ago flew away as she looked to see that her shoes, while both black, were not actually a pair. She pulled her pants down on her hips, trying to hide the laces on her right dress shoe.  “Hey, what are you doing here?” Larry, the shift manager, approached. His tone was quizzical, not angry, so hopefully no-one would notice her late time until they approved timecards. She might just pull this off. “Hi Larry,” she said, forcing herself to be calm. “I know I’m supposed to be at the register, just had to check some stuff back here.” “I’m pretty you aren’t on the schedule today,” he said. “Isn’t...

  Hank leaned back in his chair and cracked his neck elaborately, pausing for effect. “JESUS CHRIST WILL YOU FUCKING CUT IT OUT.” Deb barked from behind the mountain of chip bags on her desk behind him. Arnold to her right nodded without breaking the rhythm of his monotone delivery of CPR directions into his headset. Smiling, he hunched forward again and picked up his Fitness Gear Adjustable Grip Trainer™ to get in another dozen reps. His forearms were his weakest body part, next to his calves, which didn’t seem to matter to women, and his ankles which no one knew about unless they had seen him ride a horse. He tried tensing and un-tensing his shoulders as he squeezed the gripper, to add in some additional resistance, but he still felt antsy. This shift was a complete dud. Nothing but fallen little old lady calls and the occasional chest pain, Hank had mostly been sitting in static silence for the past 3 hours trying to maintain the pristine blankness of his mind. In an empty stret...