Full Moon Follies

6:50 p.m.

Nacho Alvarez whistles in envy. “What kinda guitar is that?”

 “A Martin D-41 Dreadnought,” Larry replies, grinning proudly. “It set me back $5,000.”

“And you brought it to this cesspool?”

“I need to practice. I figure that if I stay sharp, I’ll be ready when an opportunity to play with a band comes along.”

“You’d better hide it behind the counter,” Nacho cautions. “And don’t let any of the neighborhood farm animals see you with that. It’ll end up in a pawn shop.”

Nacho strolls to the gas station’s front window. Jaded from living in the world of retail for the past six years as the station’s afternoon clerk, Nacho lowers his ever-present sunglasses, looking outside. “There’s gonna be a full moon tonight. You know what that means?”

“Yeah. The freaks are gonna be even freakier.”

“Put the boss and the cops on speed dial. The gun’s under the counter.”

Larry picks up the ancient .45 pistol, examining it. Larry Lopes may be twenty-one, but he’s never handled a firearm and doesn’t want to start. His boyish features, slender build, and the red streaks in his sandy hair make him look like an apathetic Gen Z’er, but he’s considered caring and responsible. Larry has been assigned to work the graveyard shift at Benefucia’s Gaseteria and Convenience in small-town Chatham, which he views as the equivalent of being a lion tamer in a Fellini movie.

“Does Mr. Canning still come in to buy Friskies?” he asks.

“Yep. Don’t let him eat it in the store,” Nacho replies. “A man eating cat food’ll freak out the other freaks.”

“Is Frankie DeMornay still trying to pay with Monopoly money?”

“Yep. He offered me the Reading Railroad for a six-pack. If Gary Gutman comes in, tell him the bathroom’s out of order. You don’t want him going in there after he’s had the five-alarm chili… Other than that, it should be the usual parade of hop heads, hookers, and hooligans, with an extra dollop of full-moon fever. Well, I’ve punched out for the day. Have fun!”

Larry watches Nacho run to his car and hurriedly speed away.

7:40 p.m.

A man wearing a checkered work shirt and jeans gets $10 in gas at the pump, then comes into the store. Unlike most of the scruffy, hirsute late-night customers, this man’s beard is trimmed, and his shoulder-length dark hair appears to have been combed within the last twenty-four hours.

He points at one of the water pipes behind the counter.

“What do you intend to use that for?” Larry asks, teasing.

“Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Suffice to say, I’m going to a gig, and when I’m done, I’m going to want to unwind.”

“You’re a musician? So am I.”

“Excuse me for pointing this out,” the man says, “but you’re a clerk at a gas station. Musicians play gigs.”

Larry picks up his guitar. Placing it on the counter, he opens the case.

“Whoa! A Martin D-41 Dreadnought. Well, you’ve certainly got the right gear to be a musician. You playing any gigs?”

“Not lately. This job kinda takes up all of my time.”

Larry sees a man approaching the store. “You might want to look away.”

“Why?” the man asks.

“Bikini Bob is about to come in.”

A bald man with a beer belly and a voluminous chest of hair enters the store. He’s wearing Daisy Dukes and a sheer bikini top.

Bikini Bob casually heads to the grill, wrapping up three hot dogs.

He pays, saying, “Hot diggy dog!” then skips out of the store.

“He comes in every other night at exactly 7:45. You can set your watch by him.”

“Disturbing…What’s your name, kid?” the man asks.

“Larry Lopes. But my stage name is Lightning Larry.”

“My name’s Carson Clarke. Well, Lightning Larry, don’t let this negative atmosphere hold you back. Get out there and play! Who are your influences?”

“Nick Drake, James Taylor, Carole King, and Gordon Lightfoot.”

“Singer-songwriters, cool.”

“What kind of music do you play?” Larry asks.

“Classic rock mostly. Beatles, Stones, The Band. The only problem is that I’m playing 60s and 70s material for an audience in their sixties and seventies. They either go home early or don’t come out at all. I need to update my set list to attract a younger audience.”

“I know all the popular stuff. Foo Fighters, Arctic Monkeys, Linkin Park…”

“Cool. Keep studying. Your break will come.”

Winking at Larry, Carson pays for the waterpipe and leaves the store. Larry pictures himself on stage, playing to a crowd that gives him a standing ovation.

8:47 p.m.

A man with a pompadour, wearing plastic glasses and a frustrated frown, bursts into the store.

“Eggs!”

“In the display case with the milk.”

“Do you have a carton with a half dozen eggs?”

“We carry them only in cartons of a dozen.”

“But I only need six. The recipe calls for six! Can’t I just buy six?”

“And separate the chicks? Sorry, sir.”

“Well, you don’t have to be a weisenheimer about it, you mercenary.”

The man slams the carton on the counter.

Larry checks the eggs. One is broken.

“And you’re still going to charge me for a dozen, right?”

“I didn’t break it.”

“Mercenary!”

The man walks out. A few minutes later, Larry looks up from his guitar when he hears something hit the window.

The man throws five eggs at the window, then drives off, screaming, “Death to all mercenaries!”

10:03 p.m.

A pair of teenagers appear out of the darkness, meandering past the streetlights and wandering toward the gaseteria.

The first boy, a pimply-faced blonde, grins apprehensively at Larry through the window and then shoves his hands into his pockets, sitting on the sidewalk.

His friend, a stocky, tattooed boy with a nose ring, walks to the cooler and brings a case of Miller beer to the counter.

“I.D.?”

The boy proudly holds up a license.

“It says you were born in 1997, but you don’t look twenty-nine.”

“People say I have a baby face.”

Larry is looking at the picture on the license when it falls off, revealing a second photo of a pockmarked man.

“You should have used glue instead of tape to hold your picture in place,” Larry says, pointing to the door. “…Game over. Get out or your next picture will be a mug shot. I’m going to count to three…”

11:20 p.m.

A middle-aged woman with silver hair and a beleaguered expression enters the store, making a beeline for the beer section.

Picking out a six-pack of Brewmeister Snake Venom, she heads to the counter.

Larry notices streaks of black mascara running down her face.

“That’s strong stuff, 67% alcohol by volume.”

“Good. Only it might not be strong enough.”

He watches her head back to her car, where she opens one of the beers and chugs it.

She inhales another beer, then a third, all while crying uncontrollably.

Larry goes outside to her car.

“Is something wrong, ma’am?”

“The world couldn’t be more wrong,” she blubbers. “You live your life right, pour all the love you have into raising your child, and fate still mocks you… How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Alvin would have been your age. Is this it for you?” she asks, sobbing.

“What do you mean?”

“Being a clerk at a gas station and a convenience store. Is that all you aspire to be?”

“No, ma’am. I want to be a musician.”

“My son, Alvin, was a musician, a prodigy. He played the guitar.”

“I’m a guitarist too.”

The woman takes a long pull of beer. “Must be a night for coincidences.”

Larry looks up at the full moon.

“Yeah, I guess so. I brought my guitar with me to practice.”

“Play something for me.”

Larry retrieves his guitar.

“Any requests?”

The woman sniffles. “Alvin used to play this beautiful instrumental called ‘A Third of a Lifetime’…”

“By the Three Man Army. It’s one of my favorites.”

The woman cries throughout the song.

“Thank you. You brought Alvin back to me for a few minutes and turned my tears of sorrow into tears of joy. You’re very talented. You should stop wasting time here.”

“I’ve got plenty of time.”

“That’s what Alvin thought. Alvin died of a fentanyl overdose two years ago tonight. It was the first time he’d ever taken drugs. You don’t know how long… or how short… your life’s going to be.”

Finishing her beer, the woman backs up her car and speeds off.

Larry looks up at the full moon, shaking his fist at it.

12:07 a.m.

A sketchy-looking man in greasy jeans, with equally oily, disheveled dark hair, enters the store carrying a brick. He looks around nervously, checking to see if anyone else is in the store.

Smiling to himself, he approaches the counter.

“Gimme all your cash, pronto!”

Larry reaches under the counter, pointing the .45 at the would-be thief.

“I don’t think so, snappy.”

Brick man backs away. “I was just kiddin’! You wanna buy a brick?”

“How about you hit the bricks, and we call it a night.”

12:50 a.m.

Larry is practicing when he notices an ancient Buick weave past the gas pumps. The car crawls toward the store’s front door, crashing into the sidewalk.

The Buick idles for twenty minutes before Larry goes to the window to see if something is wrong.

The driver, a pudgy man in a Korn T-shirt, has passed out.

“He’ll probably need gas when he wakes up.”

Larry goes back to practicing.

Half an hour later, Korn stumbles into the store.

“Do you have a fire extinguisher?”

“Yes.”

“Can I rent one?”

“Sorry. They’re only for sale.”

“Jeez, I’d just like to borrow one for a few minutes,” Korn slurs. “My car overheated.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s on fire!”

“You should have led with that, mister.”

With the help of a passing police officer, Officer Kevin Ketchum, Larry extinguishes the fire.

While Larry and Officer Ketchum are at work fighting the flames, Korn sneaks into the store and steals a case of beer.

Korn streaks past them, chuckling victoriously, running headlong into Officer Ketchum’s parked car. Dazed, he takes off.

“This should be easy,” the officer says.

Sprinting like a track star, with not a hair of his perfectly styled hairdo out of place, Officer Ketchum quickly closes the distance between them, bringing Korn down with a flying tackle.

The beer cans pop open when they hit the ground, spraying both men as if they were standing under a fountain.

Officer Ketchum throws Korn into the back seat of his patrol car.

Larry focuses on a Mercedes as it pulls into the gas station.

A man in a tuxedo and a woman in a sequined silver gown get out. They’re drunk, and the man has trouble fitting the nozzle into the tank. The pair start screaming at each other. The woman snatches the nozzle from him, spraying him with gas. She reaches inside the car, holds up a lighter, and steps toward him.

She strikes a flame. The man shrieks in terror, running away. The woman chases after him, still holding the lighter.

Officer Ketchum observes the couple as they run up the street.

“Ain’t love grand?”

1:30 a.m.

Larry watches the flatbed take away the still-smoldering Buick.

Another equally ancient Buick pulls up to the first pump. A man with a Fu Manchu mustache, wearing a trench coat, steps out and pumps $11 of gas into his tank.

Babbling to himself, he strides into the convenience store, heading for the home supplies section. He grabs a rope, a roll of electrical tape, and a hammer, then heads to the counter.

“And gimme a pack of Camels,” he says forcefully.

“Kinda late for home improvement,” Larry comments.

The man stares at Larry with malice in his eyes.

“And it’s a little late at night for wise-guy humor, don'tcha think?”

“Sorry.”

“Do you carry lighter fluid?”

Larry reaches for a four-ounce can of fluid.

“Unless you’ve got somethin’ bigger, kid, I’m gonna need about eight of those.”

“We’ve got Kingsford charcoal fluid. It comes in sixty-four-ounce containers.”

“Now you’re cookin’, kid.”

Curious, Larry follows the man to the gas pumps, emptying the trash to avoid suspicion.

Larry swears he hears thumping from inside the trunk as the Buick pulls away.

1:40 a.m.

The screech of tires tears Larry away from his guitar. An Audi Q8 Sportback pulls up to the farthest pump, nearly hitting it. Three college girls in short, tight dresses pour out of it, laughing and stumbling, while a fourth pumps gas. She has trouble with her aim, pouring five dollars' worth onto the ground before she realizes she’s not filling her tank.

“Hey, Janine! Check it out!” the cute blonde says, pointing at the gas station’s inflated ten-foot tube man as it sways back and forth. “Looks like your last boyfriend. It has the same backbone. None!”

“Very funny, Shelby,” Janine slurs. “At least I know the name of the last guy I was with.”

“Peace, girls, peace,” the redhead says.

The three girls bounce around the store, giggling as they try to warm their food in the microwave. They laugh hysterically when Janine falls to the floor in a heap, spilling nacho cheese onto the front of her silk dress.

Shelby amazes the other two girls by inhaling a hot dog in two bites. Janine tries and is less successful. She gags, spraying chunks of hot dog on Shelby.

“Hey, you’re cute!” the redhead says to Larry. “You got a girl?”

“Leave him alone, Joya, he’s just a kid.”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“Well, la-de-da,” Janine replies, sticking her aquiline nose in the air. “Ring us up, gas boy, and stop flirting with Joya. She caught her boyfriend cheating on her, so she’s vulnerable.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Larry replies sympathetically.

 Joya gives him a mock frown. “I bet you’d never cheat on me, would you, gas boy?”

Larry rings up their purchases. “Your ex-boyfriend is an idiot.”

Janine and Shelby head toward the door, pointing and laughing at Larry.

Joya leans over the counter, whispering, “914-689-2267.”

“What’s that?”

“My phone number, silly.”

Blowing Larry a kiss, Joya staggers out the door.

Larry keeps repeating Joya’s number until he finds a pen and paper to write it down.

His euphoria is shattered by a loud crash.

The Audi has slammed into the gas pump.

Larry runs outside. The four girls look at him, their expressions mirroring panic. The driver backs the Audi up, slamming it into the pump again.

The hose, which she forgot to put in its holder, is yanked from the pump as the Audi speeds off. It clatters down the street, sparking as it trails behind the car.

Larry runs back inside, turning off the pump.

He dials 9-1-1, explaining the situation.

A few minutes later, a Hazmat crew arrives and begins spraying silica gel on the gasoline on the ground.

Officer Ketchum soon pulls into the station wearing a bemused smile.

“So, a bunch of drunk girls broke your pump. Too bad they drove off,” Officer Ketchum laments. “I might never catch up with them.”

Larry reaches into his pocket for Joya’s telephone number, handing it to Officer Ketchum.

“The sacrifices we make for our jobs,” Officer Ketchum says.

2:15 a.m.

Carson steps out of his car, looking at the twisted, broken gas pump.

“Looks like I’m not the only one who had a rough night. College kids?”

“Yep. Four of the prettiest drunks I’ve ever seen. What happened to you tonight?”

“My guitar player coped six shots of Jagermeister, then he coped an attitude. Now he’s my ex-guitarist. I’m looking for a replacement. Are you interested?”

Larry smiles at the full moon.