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The Chain - a Metaphoric Tale by C.C. Saint-Clair
Friday, August 11, 2006
Not rated by the Author.
Excerpt
Location: Caltex gas station somewhere in Middle America – circa 1970 – and the ubiquitous red naugahyde sofa
Slim and grungy in her stained overalls, the gas attendant punched the time clock. End of shift. Off to hang out with the gang at Reilley’s and shoot some pool. She reclaimed the bolt cutter she had casually laid on top of the reception desk, winked at Liz who looked more squashed than usual behind the cash register and strode towards the door that separated the waiting room from the pump area. Liz saw her stop in mid-stride. The car attendant swallowed hard to ease the sudden tightness in her throat. The blond woman had returned.
Trapped in the corner of the attendant’s eye, the woman was more aglow in a demure black suit than the Coca-Cola neon flickering on the wall behind her. Although a regular at the Caltex pumps, corner of Smith and 3rd, it was only last week that the station attendant had glimpsed the woman’s name. Denise. The woman had paid for gas as she always did, by holding the bills between long, manicured nails, as she might a cigarette holder and, as always, the station attendant took the bills with grease-stained fingers. The gold band on the woman’s finger twinkled as it always did.
That particular day, just as the attendant began wiping the windscreen with ever enlarging strokes of the chamois, the woman had stepped out of the black Camaro. Eagle-hard eyes soft on the woman, she watched her sashay towards the reception desk. From deep within her breast rose the sigh of the one who wants but cannot have. So, eyes trained beyond the glass door, she began rubbing her fingers with the greasy bandanna that dangled from her back pocket in a vain attempt to ...
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