was.
“Hit a nerve, huh?” Then he pointed his thumb at me and in a loud stage whisper said to the girl, “Still a virgin, too.”
I frowned as if what he was saying were so ridiculous it didn’t even require comment. But this guy was picking up on things. He was hitting too many of these shots. I could explain the lawyer guess for the most part but not the one that her father ran the museum. The day seemed hotter, the air through our open windows thicker. The girl pulled her towel tightly around her shoulders. I looked in the rearview, watching for the dog to reemerge.
“Know my trick?” the man said.
“What trick?” the girl said.
“How I read minds? Take my pretty picture. I’ll tell you the truth.”
The girl lifted a Polaroid camera from her bag.
“They make those in digital now,” the man said.
She pushed a lever on the side of the metal case, and the enclosed device opened its old accordion skin. Then she turned. “OK. Tell me.”
“First I’ll read one more piece of your sweet little brain. You. Want. Me. Out of this car.”
“Yeah. I. Do,” she said.
“I know. And I’ll tell you how I know. One, two”—he leaned forward, and the girl tensed, finger on the button—“because I’m a mind reader.”
The man yelped in high laughter, and the flash filled the car, its power diffused by the sunlight, a small, white blink followed by a whir. Film emerged from the camera’s mouth. Without reaction, the girl carefully plucked the photo and produced a ballpoint pen from her bag. I watched her write onto the white space at the bottom: I AM A MIND READER.
A Sinclair gas station appeared on my right, just off the exit. I came off the ramp and passed a concrete dinosaur in the lot, where tall, thin weeds rose from cracks like we had rolled onto the plane of a mangy asphalt scalp. There was one pump and no cars. The pump was so
old, it read the price in plastic digits that spun behind a glass façade. I stopped in the small parallelogram of shade from the hanger and pulled a lever beneath the dash. The cover on the gas tank released with a metallic boing .
“Mind reader alert: You’re thinking you’re going to get rid of me and then go home and make out,” he said. “You’re both thinking that exact thing.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” I said, laughing awkwardly as I got out of the car. He’d said exactly what I had been thinking. I took the hose from the antique pump and started to fill the Dart. The man stepped out of the car and started across the lot. He swung open the door to the convenience store so hard that it hit the side of the building. The glass shattered, falling into countless shards at his feet. He kept his arm high above his head, as if he had just thrown a handful of confetti into the breeze. I turned to the girl. She was playing air drums to the radio. The holster at the end of the hose jumped in my hand, a trickle overflowing the tank. “Hey!” I said.
She leaned out the window and said, “What?”
“Turn the car off!”
She waved her hand at the dash as if it should be forgotten. “Let’s go.”
The pump predated any technology that allowed you to pay. I turned towards the store. Inside, the man stood on his toes at the counter, leaning across it. He held the teenage teller’s hair in his fist and slammed her face onto the counter. He raised her head and did it again. I turned. The girl in my car had turned back to her bag, where she was searching for something. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I felt isolated by my senses. I got back into the car.
“You pay?” she said, putting on a pair of large sunglasses from the bag. She turned to look back as we rolled into the street. Already we had gone too far for her to see anything.
“Hey, you pay back there?”
“We needed to go.”
Out of the corner of my eye, one foot, its toenails painted in chipped red, settled into the sun on my dash. I was afraid that if I told her what had just
“Hit a nerve, huh?” Then he pointed his thumb at me and in a loud stage whisper said to the girl, “Still a virgin, too.”
I frowned as if what he was saying were so ridiculous it didn’t even require comment. But this guy was picking up on things. He was hitting too many of these shots. I could explain the lawyer guess for the most part but not the one that her father ran the museum. The day seemed hotter, the air through our open windows thicker. The girl pulled her towel tightly around her shoulders. I looked in the rearview, watching for the dog to reemerge.
“Know my trick?” the man said.
“What trick?” the girl said.
“How I read minds? Take my pretty picture. I’ll tell you the truth.”
The girl lifted a Polaroid camera from her bag.
“They make those in digital now,” the man said.
She pushed a lever on the side of the metal case, and the enclosed device opened its old accordion skin. Then she turned. “OK. Tell me.”
“First I’ll read one more piece of your sweet little brain. You. Want. Me. Out of this car.”
“Yeah. I. Do,” she said.
“I know. And I’ll tell you how I know. One, two”—he leaned forward, and the girl tensed, finger on the button—“because I’m a mind reader.”
The man yelped in high laughter, and the flash filled the car, its power diffused by the sunlight, a small, white blink followed by a whir. Film emerged from the camera’s mouth. Without reaction, the girl carefully plucked the photo and produced a ballpoint pen from her bag. I watched her write onto the white space at the bottom: I AM A MIND READER.
A Sinclair gas station appeared on my right, just off the exit. I came off the ramp and passed a concrete dinosaur in the lot, where tall, thin weeds rose from cracks like we had rolled onto the plane of a mangy asphalt scalp. There was one pump and no cars. The pump was so
old, it read the price in plastic digits that spun behind a glass façade. I stopped in the small parallelogram of shade from the hanger and pulled a lever beneath the dash. The cover on the gas tank released with a metallic boing .
“Mind reader alert: You’re thinking you’re going to get rid of me and then go home and make out,” he said. “You’re both thinking that exact thing.”
“We’re not going anywhere,” I said, laughing awkwardly as I got out of the car. He’d said exactly what I had been thinking. I took the hose from the antique pump and started to fill the Dart. The man stepped out of the car and started across the lot. He swung open the door to the convenience store so hard that it hit the side of the building. The glass shattered, falling into countless shards at his feet. He kept his arm high above his head, as if he had just thrown a handful of confetti into the breeze. I turned to the girl. She was playing air drums to the radio. The holster at the end of the hose jumped in my hand, a trickle overflowing the tank. “Hey!” I said.
She leaned out the window and said, “What?”
“Turn the car off!”
She waved her hand at the dash as if it should be forgotten. “Let’s go.”
The pump predated any technology that allowed you to pay. I turned towards the store. Inside, the man stood on his toes at the counter, leaning across it. He held the teenage teller’s hair in his fist and slammed her face onto the counter. He raised her head and did it again. I turned. The girl in my car had turned back to her bag, where she was searching for something. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I felt isolated by my senses. I got back into the car.
“You pay?” she said, putting on a pair of large sunglasses from the bag. She turned to look back as we rolled into the street. Already we had gone too far for her to see anything.
“Hey, you pay back there?”
“We needed to go.”
Out of the corner of my eye, one foot, its toenails painted in chipped red, settled into the sun on my dash. I was afraid that if I told her what had just
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