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Dust plumed from under my off-white sneakers—creeping up to discolor and slightly dampen the color of the orange neon socks, which might have looked odd against my brown tanned ankle. The front door creaked. Ajar, paint-peeled, and rotting, I pushed it aside. My pupils dilated to perceive a whicker chair, an antique ice cream cooler that I used as a makeshift air conditioner, a screen-cracked television, a generator, and a half empty bottle of cheap vodka. I am a pessimist.
I yanked the chord on the generator, plugged in the ice cream cooler, opened it’s lid, set my ass upon my chair, and allowed the cold air from the cooler freeze me instead of the Fudgesicles. Home.
Contentment. There is so little of it nowadays. I am a poor man, and my possessions mean very little to me. I need nothing to live comfortably and I enjoy the fact that no one is dependent on me for anything. I haven’t spoken to a human in five years or so. But couldn’t say with certainty exactly how long it has been since my concept of time has been somewhat tainted.
I have found that all I need is within myself.
My gas station was about six-and-a-quarter miles down the gravel road. Every morning my boots crunched against the gravel.
Every morning my eyes scanned the ground for items of interest.
Every morning I breathed in the dusty, perfect air.
Every morning I arrived at my gas station at exactly 7:oo in the AM.