7-11

Amado lived in Tranquilo, New Mexico. His mother worked two jobs—one as a teaching assistant, the other as a clerk at 7-11. His father worked as a civil engineer in the city on the horizon, the one in which Tranquilo was the smallest of seven unincorporated districts. Their house was situated along the desert highway, a singular stretch of broken-up asphalt that ran from the Indian town in the east to the city in the west. There was a pothole on the westbound side shaped like a dead coyote. Amado could see it from his living room window by standing on the couch. He and his sisters would look out as the cars drove by, counting how many swerved to avoid it. If their mother was home, she would flick their ears and tell them to get off the couch. If it was only Señora María, she would tell them to wash their feet and go back to reading her magazines.

Amado was the second oldest of five children, one of two boys. He and his siblings went to school at the Catholic church across the highway. It was built along La Nuez, the mountain that bisected the town’s northern border. The church doubled as a library and a town hall. There was a hair and nail salon to its left, a small medical clinic to its right, and a grocery store beside that. The rest of the buildings were houses, about a hundred and fifty, all of them adobe. The 7-11 occupied its own acre beside the highway, set apart from the rest of the town. It was the only modern thing in Tranquilo. It had a gas station for travellers and a neon sign that shone brighter than any of the lamps Amado or his neighbors had outside their houses. If the moon was absent one evening, he would visit his mother during her shift using the sign as a guide.

When he was fifteen, Amado began to work at the 7-11 with his mother. She showed him how to operate the register, how to count the change, and how to read the labels on the shelves. Their boss was a Native man in his fifties who always spent his time at work re-reading the same newspaper. He was patient with Amado and let him stay overtime whenever he asked. Amado asked often, even though his mother said that it was unhealthy for him to stay up so late.

By seventeen, Amado had saved up enough money to go to school in the city. He graduated early with the help of his older sister, who was studying to become a teacher. She wanted the practice and had agreed to help him. His final test scores were average, but he had written a handful of college application letters that Sister Teresa helped him make. Most were general so that any letter could go to any college, since there was no way for them to mail the letters from Tranquilo itself—they didn’t have a post office and were reliant upon their fathers to bring mail to and from the city. 

After giving his father the letters, a month passed without a visit. His father tried to come home once a week, but sometimes his work kept him gone for several months at a time. He had told Amado that his company was working on a new project in the city, a big project. Amado had asked about the project, but his father smiled and shook his head. It was a secret, he’d said, a big secret. Amado had begged to know more, but his father refused to tell. He had taken Amado’s letters and promised to give them to the colleges. Then he’d kissed Amado on the forehead, as was his custom, and drove to work. 

Amado worked the register during the day in July. It was hot and the air conditioner was broken, but his boss let him drink as many slushies as he needed to keep cool, no charge. There was a country song on the radio and the sputtering whir of a fan overhead. The door was kept open with an overturned bucket. 

 The last customer had entered five hours ago. He and his family had been on their way to the city from somewhere in Alabama. Amado had asked them what they were planning to do there. The little boy told him that they were going to see something big and reached for a toy car near the checkout. Amado had smiled and tried to ask what the big thing was, but the boy’s father swatted his hand and ushered him back to their SUV before he could voice the question. 

News from the city was scarce in the absence of his own father. The only computers were in the library at the church. They were old desktops that had been donated during a mobile charity event hosted by an out-of-state group of Protestants looking to bless impoverished communities across the country. Amado’s family, like most in Tranquilo, had satellite television, but the reception was spotty. His family’s landline was almost always being used by Señora María and they had no room for voicemails, since his mother liked to save recordings regarding their loans from the bank as a type of audio receipt. He had grown accustomed to only hearing from his father when he came home from work.  

Amado lifted his visor and dabbed his forehead with a napkin. His boss asked if anyone was pumping gas. He said no. Then his boss asked if it looked like anyone might be coming. Amado stepped out from behind the counter and to the front door. He looked out at the highway to see if there were any cars on the highway. Trails of dust tumbled across the road in flurries, and a roadrunner trotted alongside them looking for sunbathing reptiles, but there wasn’t a single vehicle in either direction. Amado said that nobody was coming. His boss told him that if no one came up within the next five minutes, he could go home early. 

Three minutes later, a white Toyota with a black hood pulled into the station. It bypassed the gas station and parked in front of the store, ignoring the boundaries of the faded parking spaces. Amado’s father left the door open as he ran into the store, holding a yellow envelope in one hand and a small box in the other. Breathless, he slammed the envelope onto the counter. He was more gentle setting down the box, but demanded that his son open both with eagerness.

Amado had not expected to see his father, especially not at the store. When he noticed his stunned pause, he put the envelope into his son’s hands, bidding him open it. Curious, Amado unsealed the slip with his thumb. It was sealed with an insignia like that of his father’s workplace. It was similar enough that Amado asked his father if it was from the company. He only smiled. Unsure of what to expect, Amado reached into the envelope and gingerly pulled out the contents. It was a single slip of paper, the kind that a diploma was printed on. For a second, Amado thought that it might be an acceptance letter. He skimmed through the introductory paragraph and realized that it was not. He tried to mask his frown, but his father encouraged him to read on. 

It was an offer from his father’s company. He had not only given his son’s letters to all the schools that he could find, he put in a word to his supervisor asking if they would be willing to take him on as an intern. And not just any intern, the letter stated, an intern that had permission to work directly alongside his father on the big, secret project. 

Amado was in shock. That he had been given permission to work alongside his father on any project was unthinkable, let alone on one of such mysterious magnitude. It was an exciting opportunity, and one for which he would never get a second chance to undertake. 

Amado’s father took the letter from his hand and replaced it with the box. Amado hesitated, but his father assured him that he would like it, perhaps even better than the letter. It was wrapped in cheap brown paper, but was sealed by a bow and ribbon. Amado suspected that his father had gotten help from one of the ladies at his work, since he could not make gifts look so tidy himself. He set the empty box on the counter and placed the wrapping alongside it. He saved the gift paper for his mother, since she recycled it to wrap their own gifts at Christmas. Inside was another box, much more sleek than the wrapped cardboard. It was white and titleless; it gave no indication of what might be inside. He shook it gently, but his father smacked his arm and claimed that it was too fragile for that. Amado slipped the lid into one hand and allowed the contents to drop into the other. The object within was rectangular, as long as his hand, and as thin as the yellow envelope. 

His father said that it was a cell phone, like the ones that they had seen on the TV commercials. It unlocked at the sight of its owner’s face, he claimed, and demonstrated the mechanism with a phone of his own. Amado asked him when he had gotten it. He said that it was a gift from his supervisor. Both of them were. Then he told Amado not to tell his siblings, since he was sure that they would be jealous. 

Amado could not imagine why his father’s company was so eager to have him. His grades were decent, as were his test scores, but he had no experience in the field. He asked his father if he should take the offer, and his father laughed. Of course, he said, as though it was as obvious as the direction of setting sun. Amado was still unsure, but his father placed a hand on his shoulder and kissed his forehead in reassurance. Amado bristled at the public display of affection, unsure if his boss could see, but his father was unperturbed. He told him that he had put forth the recommendation himself, and that if he accepted the offer, he could tell Amado the big secret. 

That assuaged Amado’s doubts. Without further hesitation, he asked what the big, secret project entailed. His father paused, acting as though he was unsure if his son was serious about agreeing to the offer. Amado assured him that he was, that it was something he looked forward to and that he was grateful for what his father had done. Convinced, his father leaned in close and looked past his son’s shoulder into the back room. His boss was at his desk, re-reading the midsection of the only newspaper he had in the office. Amado asked him again and felt the bristles of his father’s mustache tickle his earlobe.

What was the big secret? Space trains. He said nothing more than that. Amado wanted to ask questions, but his father told him that more would have to wait until his commitment was official. He gave his son a quick hug then hurried back out to his car and drove home. Amado went to pack up his things, but his boss asked him where he was going. He said that he was going home, since it had passed five minutes. His boss asked him if anyone had come into the store, and Amado said that it was just his father. His boss asked if his father was anyone and laughed at Amado’s stunned silence. It was a joke, he said, and let Amado go on his way. He wished him the best of luck as he went. 

Amado never planned to retire in Tranquilo. He thought of moving to the colony on Mars, assisting with global efforts to create a new orbital colony among the rings of Saturn. Tests at Venus and Jupiter had proven successful, and the space program had long sought after resources among the planet’s asteroid field. Within a year, the rockets would launch and building would begin.

The holographic projection on a video screen outlined schematics for the rockets and the habitation suites. Amado asked for the screen to be zoomed in, and it did so automatically. He thanked the artificial intelligence for its assistance, but it was not programmed to reciprocate gratitude. He watched for updates on the upcoming project while he organized the shelves. The years had not been kind to convenience stores, but 7-11 had kept up with the times. 

The new clerk was an android, one of the more recent models that had been produced by his and his father’s old company. Their ancestors were something that Amado helped create in his early forties. It pleased him to see elements of his contribution in the newer models. Bits of his father still lingered, too, in the computational elements of the robots’ processing units. 

 His store was outfitted with all the latest technological advancements the city had provided to its previously unincorporated districts. Automatic light fixtures, self-stocking shelves, cleaner droids, and even the holographic video web that he used to keep himself in-tune with the latest programs. The android clerk had not been given to him by the corporate heads of 7-11, but it was a gift that he had been given at his retirement party. Seventy-three years was a long time, they said. 

Outside the store, there was still a highway stretching east to west. The gas station had long ago been replaced by a charging station, the kind that serviced land and air-based vehicles. These vehicles were all electric now, but the newest ones had magnetic propulsors. The highway had been modified to accommodate these new vehicles, making it one of the only in the region able to accommodate such vehicles. 

Tranquilo was a bustling suburb, nearing the population threshold of a city. There were no more adobe buildings in use, although the church had been kept as a historic center. The houses resembled those of the futuristic city, and the old families were either updated with them or cast aside. Amado had seen many neighbors leave Tranquilo for cheaper estate. He was fortunate that he and his family could remain. 

His brother and sisters had chosen to move, however, as did his father and mother, before their passing. She had loved the rustic simplicity of their town and had been sad to see it modernized. His father had loved his mother more than Tranquilo, so he agreed to go with her further west, to Arizona, in a town that had not been subject to such modernization. 

Only once had Amado seen his father after he left. Work was hard, and the demands of the company were ever increasing. When it was all said and done, when the chance to retire and put it all behind him finally arose, Amado was ready to leave the company. But he was not ready to leave Tranquilo, and so he bought the 7-11 on its own acre, and kept that acre separate from the ever-increasing world around it. Several times he had to fight the city council to keep his space, as they argued it was just one of many relics in the way, but Amado won each time. 

All that remained of the original building was the neon sign out front. Of all the things he changed, Amado refused to take down the sign. His robotic clerk had tried to argue for its destruction more than once, but Amado was unwilling to relent. On some nights, when the moon was obscured by clouds and the traffic of flying cars and spaceships, the neon sign helped guide him home. Despite the brightness of all the other signs around him, 7-11 was the most familiar brightness of them all.