The Orbit: The Online Drive-in of Champion Mojo Storyteller Joe R. Lansdale

It was an old filling station. It was set off the road and the only reason I went there was because I really had to pee, and it was the only station I had seen signs for in a while. The signs were old and hand-painted, and they had big, faded red arrows on them that directed me to the place.

The station had once been on a main highway, but they built the Interstate through, and that put it out of the way. But somehow, it had hung on.

The station was grimy, with dust and bugs that had blown against the outside glass, which was long and wide. You could see through all the grime, but not clearly. The light behind the glass was dim, as if seen from a distance, even though I was close.

There were two pumps outside, and they were really old. There wasn’t any business about putting your charge card in them and running the gas yourself. I could tell that just by looking at them.

You had to go inside to pay before the gas was turned on. But I didn’t want gas. I wanted to pee. I parked over by the restroom and when I got out I saw on the restroom door a sign that said you had to ask for the key.

I quick-walked to the station’s front door, which was an old, wooden affair that creaked open with a rusty-hinge sound. There was a stringy guy in a gray cap behind the cash register, and on the counter next to the register were large smudgy glass jars of pickled eggs, pickled pig’s feet, some big dill pickles in brine, as well as something suspicious in a jar full of yellow liquid. There was a pair of tongs lying on a cracked saucer, in case you wanted to screw off the lid of one of the jars and pull something out.

There were the usual odds and ends elsewhere. Chips, beef jerky, air-fresheners and the like. Some of it looked too old to still be for sale. Some of the candies and chips had names I hadn’t seen in ages and thought were long out of business.

On the wall behind the man was a boar’s head. It was moth-eaten and one of the tusks was missing.

I asked about the restroom key. He took his time to answer. He had one of those voices that sounded as if it weren’t used often and had corroded.

“You got to buy something.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll have a pack of gum.”

“Needs to be more than gum.”

“All right, then, how about a bag of chips and a package of gum?”

I got those items and paid for them and he gave me the restroom key, which was attached by a chain to a narrow board a foot long and as thick as my wrist.

“Door locks behind you,” he said. “You won’t need it coming out, but bring it back.”

I told him I’d return for my goods after I finished up, went out, and walked around to where the restroom was.

When I used the key and entered, I heard the door lock behind me. I flicked on the light, which was one bulb in the center of the ceiling. It hummed to life, but was hazy and gave off a urine-like color. I decided the station fellow might not think the restroom was public, but it looked as if it were quite public, because it stank of urine and feces and the little white mint in the urinal had turned as yellow as a canary. The smell that rose up from it was stifling. Beneath the urinal was a crusty, dark stain. The last time this place had been clean was when it was built.

I decided I ought to do more than pee. I ought to go the whole hog, as much as I hated to in a hole like that. I went into the toilet, closed the door, tried to lock it, but the lock was poor, so you were really on a kind of honor system. If someone pushed it from the outside, the stall door would easily fly open. By this time, I was glad to see there was paper on a roller, and that the seat wasn’t too nasty looking, though there was a dark stain inside the porcelain bowl that made me gag a little.

And, like the urinal, it was odiferous.

I used some toilet paper to wipe the seat off, placed the board and key on the back of the toilet tank, let down my pants, managed to sit down on the toilet to do my business, and that’s when I heard the door open and someone come in.

I couldn’t see who it was, but I could hear them, and they were next to the toilet stall, at that horrid urinal. I could hear them peeing.

“I showed him,” said a man’s voice, and for a moment I thought he might be speaking to me.

I decided not to respond, but tried to do what I had come to do as quickly as I could.

“I showed him. I showed him all right. But, oh, so much blood. And the guts, steaming. Nice. Real nice.”

I wondered if he was talking about a deer. It was hunting season. But who was he talking to? Had someone come inside with him, and if so, why weren’t they speaking back?

There was a long moment of silence, and then I heard, “I cut him a lot. I wanted to meet some place nice, not here. I sure cut him, though. I should never have picked him up. I should never have. Jesus, why do I keep coming back here?”

There was a pause, as if waiting for an answer.

“He was like all the others. Just wouldn’t listen. And I had to cut him. I had to cook him. I had to eat him.”

I was finished doing what I had come to do by this time. I used the toilet paper, stood, and quietly pulled up and fastened my pants.

My skin was cold and there were goosebumps on my arms and on the back of my neck.

“You would know how to act, wouldn’t you?” said the voice. I caught my breath. Was he speaking to me?

The man had moved. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear a bit of shuffling from the urinal to the door of the stall. I looked at the crack between the door and the stall but couldn’t see anyone. The door was a partial door so you could see feet underneath it, if you bent down to look, but I wasn’t about to bend down and look with him that close. I clenched my fist in case he should push the door and come through.

The stall door moved ever so slightly.

“Not everyone has to die. Sometimes, it’s good.”

There was movement again, and I had the distinct feeling the man had stepped away from the stall. I stood there with my fist clenched for a long time. I didn’t hear the outside bathroom door open, but I didn’t hear him roaming around in there anymore, either.

I decided I couldn’t just stay in this stinky stall and wait and see what he was up to. Maybe he had gone out and I hadn’t heard him leave.

I inched close to the stall door, and though my skin tingled with fear, I put my eye to the crack and looked out. I couldn’t see anyone from that angle. I stepped back and bent down and looked under the stall, where the urinal was, but I couldn’t see feet.

I remembered then I had put the key and board on the back of the toilet tank lid. I picked it up. It was heavy. It would make a good weapon.

I took a deep breath and came out of the stall with the board cocked over my shoulder. I didn’t see anyone. Now I was too frightened to go outside. I had the board, but opening the door and finding someone waiting out there was a horrible thing to contemplate.

Eventually, I built up my courage enough to open the door and look out at the night.

No one was outside. As I was standing there, the water at the sink came on. It startled me. I glanced back. Water was running full force from the faucet. It didn’t look like the sort of faucet that was set off by movement. It was one of those old turn-it-on-and-off-with-your-hand affairs. But how had it come on?

I took a breath. Decided it was obvious. It was as flawed as this entire bathroom. Somehow the handle had slipped and the water came on. It wasn’t an entirely satisfying solution, but I went with it.

A moment later, the water shut off. That really troubled me.

I went out.

I let the door close behind me without bothering with cutting off the light. I walked away with the board still in my hand. I went out and stood by my car. There was no one around. It was warmer out there and the air was certainly fresher.

Had it been the station owner? And if so, what the hell was he talking about? Was he messing with me? Was it someone confessing something terrible to himself, someone who noticed I was in there, then asked me how I would act if I were with him?

And that’s when I heard a noise behind the closed bathroom door, and then the voice.

“I need someone else. I really do.”

The bathroom door cracked open slightly. I could feel cold air slipping out from inside, along with the stink.

“Come back in,” the voice said.

I got in my car, started it, backed up, and rolled away from there. I looked in my rearview mirror.

The bathroom door was open wider now. I could see a shadow pinned against the light from inside? Then the door opened even more and the shadow slipped out and rushed toward the rear of my car.

A somewhat-human shape grabbed at the back of the car, found purchase and clung there, crawling up to the rear windshield.

At that moment, behind the car, the wedge of light the open bathroom door had provided went away as the door closed by itself and the shadowy shape clinging to the rear windshield blended with the night.

The light that had been on inside the main section of the grimy filling station was dark. My view of the station in my rearview mirror receded as I pressed my foot on the accelerator.

I drove onto the Interstate. There were lots of streetlights along the way and lots of cars, and they made me feel better.

Few hours later I had the urge to stop for another bathroom break, and even though there were now plenty of brightly lit and modern stations just off the four-lane highway, I didn’t stop. I held it.

At some point I realized I hadn’t picked up the items I had bought at the station, and the bathroom key on the chain fastened to the board was on the seat beside me. I also remembered the bathroom door had locked behind me when I entered, so how had someone come in?

I rolled down my window to throw out the board and key.

The wind that blew in was dark and foul and icy cold.