Short Fiction

The Gas Station Off Quaker Drive

By Christian Mueth

Rain sheeted endlessly and clogged the ground's arteries, smudging stretching cornfields with the road. The clouds roared at the rain's betrayal but to no avail. The rain remained deaf to them. Only the floorboard to Mr. Thorpe's truck heeded the clouds' bellows, shuddering in fear.

Mr. Thorpe took in a deep breath and tightened his grip around the steering wheel. He flipped the switch to his wipers. Even so, the windshield remained pocked with fat raindrops. The truck hiccupped as it ran over a pothole, sending Mr. Thorpe's glasses into glass.

Just what he needed — his vision to be ten times blurrier.

Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he groped for his glasses. His body shifted to the side as the truck swerved. Shoving his glasses back on his face, Mr. Thorpe realigned with the road. The truck hummed as Mr. Thorpe's heart rate lowered.

His forehead was glazed with sweat and his throat screamed of thirst. The summer heat was relentless. He turned up the air conditioning when the car tripped over a pothole, sending Mr. Thorpe's hand into another button. The moonroof cracked open, sending rain down like hellfire. Mr. Thorpe's hand fumbled wildly. Finally, he landed on the button to his moonroof and put it back down.

His car and his clothes were soaked. The nerves in his body were shot. At least he was slightly cooler.

Who was he kidding? This road-trip had been a bust from the very beginning. All he'd wanted was a little reprieve from his snotty summer school students. That wasn't so unreasonable for a math teacher, was it?

Apparently, the weather didn’t agree. Just his luck.

Lightning scraped along the skyline. A fresh layer of rain sent the truck skidding. Thuds resounded from the back of the truck as his toolbox and oil can were flung about. The truck's exhaust coughed and Mr. Thorpe struggled to keep control, listening to the engine's strength wax and wane.

He glanced at the fuel gauge. Only a gallon remained. Not much of a problem; he could fill it with the can he had in the back. Then he glanced at a warning light — his tires were low.

Mr. Thorpe's eyes widened. He could practically see his taxed truck veering to the side of the road with a flat tire. Where would he go? What would he do? He was in the middle of nowhere without so much as a map or GPS to guide him. Glancing at his charger, he clenched his jaw. It'd snapped several hours ago, sentencing his phone to death. Why couldn't he have had the sense to bring his good charger?

His breaths tided in and out. This trip was wretched. Yet, it could've been worse. He needed to make the most of it while it lasted. There was no point in letting the weather put him under.

Locking his gaze straight ahead, his body relaxed. Once he got out of this storm, all of this would seem insignificant. It was just a small blip in the grand scheme of things.

Mr. Thorpe squinted. Something blotted the edge of his windshield. Mud? He turned up his wipers. It didn't budge. Moreover, the blot was growing and taking form. What was it? Whatever it was, it must've been outside the windshield rather than on it. It was also getting closer.

It wasn't on the windshield. But soon it would be.

Mr. Thorpe slammed his brakes. After a moment of refusal, the truck slowed its speed. Its headlights set the blot aglow, morphing it into a demonic specter. No — a man. Mr. Thorpe checked his speedometer. He was slowing but not fast enough.

Dear God! He was going to kill a man. There was no way that Elming Middle School would take him back after this. All his students… they'd be horrified, though some would be delighted, but mostly horrified. Hopefully. And the parents… they'd be after him, too. Forget the parents — the police would assuredly want him detained. He'd be in prison for years, possibly decades.

Some vacation.

Mr. Thorpe's hands jittered. His left went running down his pant leg, and his right slammed his horn. Yet the man was only a few feet away, and he didn't move.

The truck didn't move. It jerked to a halt.

Mr. Thorpe let out a relieved wheeze. He checked his pulse — One-hundred-and-fifty beats per minute. Dr. Ulysses was going to give him hell if he heard about this.

His body felt as frail as wet paper. Despite this, he mustered the resolve to glare ahead. The man was a statue, letting rain drench his skin before spouting off his body. From under the hood of his thick jacket, strands of hair hung in his face and clung to his skin. However, what captivated Mr. Thorpe was the man's gaze. Rather, the lack of it. His eyes were fixed on the asphalt, oblivious to the steaming hood of Mr. Thorpe's truck.

"What are you doing!? Get out of the road!" Mr. Thorpe shouted. At least, he tried to shout. The words came out as a shrill squeak. The stress had left his lungs breathless.

There was no point in trying to reason with the man. Mr. Thorpe's hand rested on his shift stick, preparing to go in reverse when the stranger’s eyes jumped up. Had he heard Mr. Thorpe's shouts? It didn't matter. The miscreant must've been mad, if not worse.

The man broke into a sprint and rapped his fingers along the driver’s side door. Mr. Thorpe's foot hovered over the gas, preparing to fly off. It would serve the idiot right for standing in the road in the middle of a storm. Then Mr. Thorpe saw the desperation filling the man's eyes. He watched the way they flitted wildly, from the back of the truck, to the road, to Mr. Thorpe. Mr. Thorpe's chest fluttered. In a moment of irrationality, he rolled the window down.

The man poked his head through. "Could I hitch a ride with you?"

"H-Hitch a ride?" Mr. Thorpe stammered, rain spraying into his face.

This was already a bad idea. What had he been thinking?

"Yes," the man said, stroking his stubble. "My buddy ditched me here. He was giving me a ride to work when we got into a fight. Didn't end well."

While the man had a rugged look to him, his voice was smooth and fluid. Moreover, his eyes were sharp. Mr. Thorpe pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. This was more than he'd bet on.

"I'm Joe, by the way," the man said. He offered a sopping hand.

Mr. Thorpe took it before promptly wiping his own hand off. "Joe..." Mr. Thorpe said.

He suddenly realized he still hadn't put his car in park. Frantically, he switched gears before looking back at Joe. The name really did fit him, didn't it? Yet, Mr. Thorpe couldn't put his finger on why.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear about all that, Joe," Mr. Thorpe said, "but I really wasn't planning on bringing any hitchhikers aboard today. I, uh... well..."

"I'm not that far from here," Joe said. "I'm just at the gas station, off Quaker Drive. Shatley's. It's impossible to miss."

Joe puffed out his chest and raised himself to his full height. He was a tall man of brawny build. Mr. Thorpe looked into Joe's eyes. They had a familiar glint to them. Where did he remember seeing them? Suddenly, Mr. Thorpe was taken back to his countless skirmishes with delinquent students. They always had ‘cunning’ spelled across their faces, and Joe shared this look.

At least, that's what it seemed. But, what if Mr. Thorpe was just seeing things? If Joe had wanted to pull something, he already could've. Besides, his face was pallid, his body was shivering, and his clothes were drenched. Mr. Thorpe bit his lip. He'd have to be heartless to abandon the man in such a state.

Mr. Thorpe needed a place to refuel anyway, and it'd be a downright nightmare to refuel on the side of the road. His tires were also in dire need of being pumped. Plus, Joe would probably be able to give directions out of this godforsaken Hick-Ville.

Mr. Thorpe gave Joe a thin smile, only to have Joe clasp his fingers along the edge of the door. His nostrils flared in annoyance.

"Y-You can give me... you can show me the way there, right?" Mr. Thorpe asked. The muscles in his neck tensed. This was a huge mistake. Why couldn't the worth of a person be as self-evident as a theorem?

"Thanks!" Joe's body shunted the car making it creak to the left. Was Joe really that excited? It was hard to tell — his head was turned toward the back of the truck.

Joe pointed his thumb to the left. "Is it alright if I go grab my things and throw them in the back?"

"Why, of course," Mr. Thorpe said. While you're at it, why don't you bring a tent, a mattress, and some food? he thought but didn't say.

Joe was already off. Mr. Thorpe watched as he ran to a worn stop sign on the edge of the road. The "T" had chipped away, leaving only "S OP". Joe dipped into the ditch before running back to the truck with a large duffle bag. Mr. Thorpe crossed his fingers, hoping to God there wasn't a body in the bag.

Please don't be a body in that bag.

There was a soft thud as the bag was tossed in the back. Joe opened the passenger door and hopped in. A splash of water followed him, smearing the side of Mr. Thorpe's face and dousing the passenger seat.

A rash crawled up Mr. Thorpe's skin. His car was going to smell like dog for weeks. There was no telling how many air fresheners he'd have to stuff in it.

"Thanks again," Joe said, putting a clammy hand on Mr. Thorpe's shoulder. Mr. Thorpe shirked to the side only for Joe to tighten his grip. "Now, go. Go! What are you waiting for?"

Joe was clearly out of his mind if he thought he could just give orders like Mr. Thorpe was some chaperone. Yet, as Joe opened his mouth again, an anxiety rose in Mr. Thorpe's chest. He shifted into drive and floored the gas.

Mr. Thorpe's eardrums were of the sensitive variety. He couldn't afford to entreat senseless shouts. Yes — that was all it had been about.

Timidly, he glanced to the side. Joe placed his feet on the dashboard and ran his finger between his teeth. Drips of water plinked from the tips of Joe’s boots, forming a puddle.

"I appreciate you giving me directions to the nearest gas station," Mr. Thorpe said, fighting to keep his voice above a squeak. "But, where are we going, exactly?"

"Straight, for now," Joe said. He pulled off his hood, letting a mane of hair spill out behind him, followed by trickling water.

Mr. Thorpe was only a thin strand from seething. Yet, what could he do? It was too late to turn around and dump Joe back out. Besides, they'd be at the gas station soon enough. He just had to hold out a little while longer.

"And after that?" Mr. Thorpe asked coolly, taking care to keep his stress from seeping through.

"Straight. Then not straight. I'll tell you when."

Mr. Thorpe's knuckles went white against his steering wheel. That was it — this idiot needed to be set straight. Mr. Thorpe let his foot off the gas and went to slam the brake.

"So, what do you do for a living?"

Mr. Thorpe set his foot back on the gas. "I like to tell people that I'm a mathematician who happens to teach middle school math in his spare time. Though, it's more the reverse..."

Joe let out a bellowing laugh and slapped his knees. "That's rich."

"You don't… you don't believe I'm a math teacher?"

"No, no..." said Joe, his face going grave. "It's just, I say the same thing all the time. I'm an oil mogul who happens to work at a gas station."

"That's not really the same thing."

"I find ways of getting oil for dirt cheap, all the time... practically for free, sometimes. What else would you call me but an oil mogul?"

Joe's face was fierce. Mr. Thorpe could almost feel his breath baring down on him. Trapped, he could do nothing but swallow and nod in agreement.

Lightning lashed at the horizon followed by another crack of thunder. Was that bolt closer than the last one? It seemed so. Hopefully the trend wouldn't continue.

"So, mathematics, huh? Interesting field," said Joe. "Always hated it myself, though... Never could wrap my head around Pi, or radicals, or any of that garbage. The square root of negative one was always especially confusing. How could there be a square root of a negative number?"

A mixture of annoyance and joy swelled in Mr. Thorpe's chest.

"The square root of negative one isn't as confusing as it seems. While all square roots are positive numbers, the square root of negative one isn't just any number — it's an imaginary number. It goes by a different set of rules. As I tell my students, imagination is a positive, even if the very thing you imagine is negative. There are certain things that you need to imagine, in order for mathematics to make sense."

The concept was so simple — so elegant. It never ceased to amaze Mr. Thorpe how many people had yet to understand it.

Joe shook his head. "Thanks for the lecture, but I'm only here for the ride."

A rock dropped in Mr. Thorpe's chest. He nodded again and set his sights back on the road. "Yes. Of course."

Stretching his arms behind his head, Joe let out a yawn. "It really doesn't make much sense, anyway. You start out by saying mathematics is supposed to be physical. Real. Two plus two... that sort of thing. But then you muck it up with all of your complex concepts, and it loses the point."

"But see, mathematics is real. It's the most real science out there. The system works in a strictly defined way — its complexities arise out of its inherent simplicity. Math is the only thing we can use to truly describe the world around us, so it's no wonder that it can be hard to understand. The world, if you haven’t noticed, is a bit complex."

Rain thrashed at the roof of the truck, and bits of debris hurled at the windshield. Mr. Thorpe took in a deep breath of air. A rush flowed through him, setting him aloft. Despite the testiness of the elements, he was in his element. Mathematics was his language. There was a sharpness to his senses — clarity.

"Turn left."

Mr. Thorpe banked his truck around a bend, onto a narrow dirt road. A forest of grass brushed against the sides of the truck. Trying to cast his gaze ahead, he turned on his bright-lights. Yet, the road was obscured by winding curves and overgrowth. Mr. Thorpe shot a look at Joe.

"It's a short-cut," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Does that calm you down?"

It should've. A shadow rolled over Joe's face. His hair and eyes shimmered. His lip furled into something like a snarl.

"Anyway, once you accept those concepts, proposing that mathematics is ‘real’ is inherently fallacious," Joe said. His voice sounded foreign, adopting a deep timbre. "You're being willfully ignorant. If there are concepts to mathematics that don't fit with our current understanding of the physical world, that proves mathematics to be nothing more than a fiction."

Mr. Thorpe's pulse quickened. A feebleness possessed his muscles, paralyzing his hands. He gave Joe a sidelong glance. Did he just say what it sounded like he said?

"I-I suppose," Mr. Thorpe said, licking his lips. His tongue was sandpaper, and his throat scraped against his vocal chords. "Though, you're ignoring that mathematics is the basis of all science. Without it, we'd be hopelessly lost. This very road we're driving down — it couldn't have been built without math. I'm sure of it."

"Well, then let's get off of it. Make a left."

Tires squealed as Mr. Thorpe sent his truck into another turn. In his mirror, mud kicked up from the wheels and caked to the sides of the truck.

"So, what you're basically getting at," Joe said, his voice starting slow, "is that math is real because people who believe math is real build things with the belief that math is real. That's circular reasoning, isn't it?"

"No. I'm not saying math is real because people can build things with math. Rather, it's because people can't build things without it. We can't explain things without it. The system is internally consistent."

"Internally consistent. Externally though? Not so much."

What on Earth was he getting at? Lips bobbing, Mr. Thorpe scrambled for words of retort. Yet he came up empty. A flash of malice slashed Joe's face. Then, in a roar of thunder, it evaporated.

"You clearly like circles," Joe said. "I love circles myself. There's something about them — the way they end up never ending, yet always ending all the same. If there's anything in the world that makes sense, it's the circle. Though, math can't explain the length of a circle..."

A snort left Mr. Thorpe's nostrils. "You mean the circumference?" he said. "Please, have you ever heard of Pi? Clearly you've never taken a basic mathematics course."

"Oh, I have. But Pi... it assumes that the circle is perfect. No real circle is. And besides, Pi isn't perfect either. It goes on for an infinite regress, never truly reaching an end. In that way, we can never know the perfect circle, let alone the imperfect, no matter our efforts."

Mr. Thorpe's hairs raised in an unbridled rage. Joe was clearly wrong. It was so easy to dismiss his claims. Yet, how could the simpleton be so adamant? How was he able to get under the skin?

Mr. Thorpe had listened to students moan ad infinitum about mathematics many a time. It'd never fazed him before, only leaving him with a vague sense of pity. Yet now? He was brimming with self-doubt.

"Infinity is another conundrum," Joe continued. "Many will say that infinity goes on forever. Though, that's not quite it. Infinity is forever. Better put, it's a forever. You can add an infinity to an infinity. You can multiply an infinity by an infinity. You can calculate the square root of an infinity. You can split an infinity in half. But, at the same time, you can't. Because always — always — an infinity remains an infinity. How? In what way does that make sense?"

Mr. Thorpe chuckled. "You have a point. Mathematical concepts — they're not always the easiest to wrap our heads around. But that doesn't render its science null and void."

Joe mimicked the chuckle and gave Mr. Thorpe a cold punch to the shoulder. Mr. Thorpe winced and rubbed the spot. Joe's punch had been hard. Too hard.

"It's not a science though. That's where your fundamental error lies: it's a philosophy. The funny thing about philosophy... it’s endless thought, culminating in the knowledge that — well, we have no knowledge."

Mr. Thorpe's body was still reeling from latent anxiety, but he managed to roll his eyes. "You're telling me that you don't believe two plus two equals four?"

"Make a left," Joe said. Then, clearing his throat, "I'm asking you what is two? What is four?"

The tires turned, snickering at Mr. Thorpe's plight. "They're… they're numbers."

"Then show me a number. Dig deep enough, and you'll find that a number is nothing more than a figment."

Letting out a heave, Mr. Thorpe attempted to regather himself. The last thing he'd prepared for was an ontological argument. Yet, at the same time, he had prepared— he'd run this gambit with colleagues before. If only he had his notes on him, this would've been a breeze.

He was always terrible at arguing. His colleagues constantly kept the edge on him; somehow, they knew how to keep their thoughts in line. But, this bum? How on earth was he able to pose a challenge? It defied probability.

"You know a lot for a guy who works at a gas station."

"Mogul."

"I couldn't care less what you call yourself. Do you think this is funny? Because it's not."

"Just trying to have a chat, to make the time go by... that's all."

Chat. The word sounded wrong coming out of Joe's shaggy lips. Moreover, there'd been a marked shift in Joe's demeanor. His hands rested on his pants, which had been neatly ironed out. His posture had straightened. His feet had slid from the dashboard and were planted squarely on the floorboard. Flinching, Mr. Thorpe heard the crack of thunder. Wind rushed at the windshield, muddying the view.

"How long will it be until we arrive at the gas station, anyway?" Mr. Thorpe asked.

Weight laced his voice. It must've been the storm wearing away at him. If he'd planned his vacation for any other day, this all could've been avoided.

"Soon enough. I know it seems long, but that's just how it seems. Trust me: I've been down this road countless times."

Silence encircled them, held back only by the storm's cries. Reluctantly, Mr. Thorpe licked his dry lips and prayed for words to come.

"I trust that you hate teachers?" asked Mr. Thorpe.

"Turn left," Joe said, his voice taking a gruff edge. "I don’t hate teachers. I hate what they do."

Mr. Thorpe was about to laugh before catching Joe's eye and frantically forcing it down. Joe's arm edged close to the steering wheel. Mr. Thorpe's hands tightened.

"And what is that?" Mr. Thorpe said.

"They pretend to teach those that know nothing... yet they know nothing themselves. From nothing, nothing comes.”

Slowing his speed, Mr. Thorpe watched two drops of rain race down his window. As they merged, Mr. Thorpe’s eyes met Joe’s.

“And haven’t you taught me a thing or two?” Mr. Thorpe asked. “Or, at least, tried?”

Joe’s hands tightened before resuming a natural repose. “I didn’t try. I was just bored and thinking. As I see it, the worst thing in the world you can be is bored. That, or a teacher. People are best learning things on their own, rather than having other people force-feed them.”

“And how will people learn to learn, without somebody to show them? They’ll just repeat the same mistakes, and never move knowledge forward.”

“We’d be better for it. The less we know, the lesser our chances of knowing that we can never know. We can only ever go so far, before hitting a wall. Why not never hit it, by just going in a cycle?”

Mr. Thorpe fidgeted in his seat. Joe was, of course, wrong. Though, what could he say? What answer was there?

Raindrops shrunk to thin slivers, and thunder faded to a distant moan. The truck groaned with it, its slackening wheels chewing the gravel.

“Stop!” Joe shouted, jumping in his seat.

Mr. Thorpe slammed his brakes, and his eyes darted about. Was it a deer? He didn’t see one. Maybe it was another person? Acid climbed Mr. Thorpe’s throat — anything but another person.

“What? What is it?”

Joe pointed out the window and undid his seatbelt. “This is my stop.”

A flash of red met the corner of Mr. Thorpe’s eye. He glanced over to find a sign with the word “S OP” printed along it. Mr. Thorpe’s heart whimpered, then skipped a beat.

“B-But, Joe... this is where we started.”

Joe glanced at the sign. “So it seems.”

“Where’s the gas station?"

“I don’t know. Very odd. Could’ve sworn it should’ve been here. I did the mental math and everything...”

He unlocked the door, letting a gust in.

“What are you going to do now?” Mr. Thorpe asked, desperately. “I can’t just let you out in this weather!”

“Sure you can. I planned on being back here right about now.”

Planned? Mr. Thorpe shook his head. It couldn’t have been.

“You... you had me drive all that way, just to come back here? And for nothing?”

“Sure. I guess you can say I was lonely. I needed somebody to talk to. Thanks for the chat.”

“But—”

“And thanks for the ride!”

Joe slammed the door before pulling his blob of a duffle-bag out of the back. Ogling, Mr. Thorpe watched as Joe walked off the side of the road and disappeared into the cornfield. The wind picked up. Raindrops dripped down. A minute passed and Mr. Thorpe still sat.

It didn’t make any sense. Had it really been all a ruse? What had been the point? What would possess a man to stand out in the rain, without a reason in the world?

There was a roar. Thunder? No, it couldn’t have been.

Light blasted from the cornfield. Mr. Thorpe shielded his eyes and squinted ahead. A car barreled out and then onto the road. As it passed Mr. Thorpe, he caught the eye of the driver. It was Joe. At least — it’d looked like him. Though, there’d been a deep grin across his face.

The car sped away before its taillights finally dipped over the horizon. Mr. Thorpe snorted and put his foot back on the gas. It’d just been a stupid prank. Nothing more.

Nothing.

Mr. Thorpe went on for a couple miles, telling himself this. Yet at the edge of every bend, he thought he could see Joe. At every road sign, he thought he could read the words “Quaker Drive”, if only for a second.

The truck sputtered and coughed. The wheels whined. Tapering to the side of the road, Mr. Thorpe glanced at his fuel gauge — he’d forgotten to refill the tank. Classic.

He stepped out of the truck and popped open the gas tank, rain heckling him all the while. Then he went to the back of his truck for his oil can.

His eyes bounced about. Where was the oil can?

There was only his toolbox and a large, black duffle bag.

A knife tore through Mr. Thorpe’s chest. Cautiously, he dragged the bag toward himself. The zipper wailed as he yanked it down and its guts spilled out — an assortment of blankets and pillows.

Mr. Thorpe’s body quaked. Joe was long gone, with this as the only trace.

End