Purgatory Lane
A flat on Purgatory Lane gives me the excuse to light up another Camel, and I am in need of a nicotine hug. I pull my old VW into the breakdown. Somewhere in the world, I imagine there is a version of me who took a left instead of a right off Chestnut, and she is now all cozied up in a booth of some dive bar, hugging the arm of a stranger. That me is warm, inside and out.
I’m not surprised I got a flat. The low-pressure indicator has been flashing for days. It was only a matter of time until the tire said “fuck it” and blew. Shit like that tends to happen when you ignore cries for help, and I somehow managed to do it even with the light blinking in my face. I imagine that’s how my boss felt when I told him I was getting too old working for the town. I’m an electrician, and the storms sweeping through have had me working overtime. Another fifty-hour week––gone. These days, I practically wear thick brown boots and a reflector vest to bed. I’ve lost motivation to shower. I now rely on cheap CVS perfume and quick use of a Tide Stick to maintain some passing level of cleanliness.
I unraveled this morning in our small lounge area. I told my boss, “Look, I can’t keep doing this,” and he looked at me like I’d just killed his entire family.
“Oh, you’re tired? Here, let me get you a chair. Would you like some water, too? Maybe a blanket and a pillow? Honey, we’re all exhausted. We’re all trying to make ends meet. I have a family to feed, a kid to put through college, food to put on the table. You think you’re the only one who wants to just curl up and throw a middle finger to the world? Join the club. If you want a paycheck, you’ll work the normal hours.” I looked at the man, saw the gray in his moustache and the plastered dirt and grime on his forehead and cheeks. A real servant to the people, a man who aged twenty years in a matter of ten. I think of myself, just passing my eleventh anniversary in the job, and wonder if we’re walking the same path. Two workers, two people, just trying to keep the lights on.
So here we are, having played fate and lost, now stranded in the cold and the dark. Here on Purgatory, the sky is falling. Another relentless storm. It’s a quiet stretch of eight miles where the speed limit is forty-five, but you never go a single digit below sixty. A lot can happen in those eight miles. You can come to terms with whatever war you went through today, or you can reject it. Between Hell and Heaven, a friend of mine once dubbed it. Work and home. I ride it every day.
I take a quick drag before killing the engine and letting the sound of the rain send me into a brief trance. Just a bit up the road I can make out the faint, blurry glow of gas prices. It’s a rest stop, a place I’ve frequented for months. Maybe longer. It’s the answer to my rejected days. I’m on a first name basis with everyone there. Keifer runs the register Monday through Wednesday, Laverne takes over Thursdays and Fridays, and a pair of old Vietnam buddies hold down the fort every weekend: Phillip and Edward. And sometimes I drink there. I’ll buy a twelve pack –– or something a bit stronger –– for me and the staff, and we’ll just shoot the shit at the register while the world goes on without us. I’ll tell them about the time I fell from the bucket truck while trying to repair a phone line, or the time I touched a live wire and the shock was so strong it went through my glove. When I tried to remove the glove, my palm had welded to the inner material. The cashiers then tell me their best stick-up stories, and we argue about who’s had it worse. We never agree. Last week, I drank more than usual and had to take a cab home. I then took another cab back to the gas station the next morning, where my car sat in overnight’s dew.
I go there because home reminds me that tomorrow is coming. Sometimes just knowing you have to live today all over again tomorrow feels unnaturally cruel. So, I let go and hope that wherever I float, no matter how long it lasts, I’ll just be away. Will I drive my three-wheeled car up the road to the glowing lights? No, I won’t. I think I’ll walk. With my cigarette still burning between my fingers, I open the car door and feel the weight of the evening. I head in the direction of the light.
Charlie Turner holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. In 2020, he was a finalist in the Boston in 100 Words writing contest, and in 2018 he won Best in Competition at the Michael S. Roif Awards for his original screenplay, Paper Faces. He is currently working on a collection of short stories all revolving around the term "disorientation," as well as his first novel — a thriller set in the Montana wilderness. In his spare time, Charlie writes film, video game, and television reviews for his blog CharliesCut.com. Charlie lives in Boston with his wife, Rachael, and his cat, Richard.