Aurora Empty

It's Tuesday. Mid Summer. I'm stranded.

My Tercel is a corpse on the side of Aurora Avenue N, its gas gauge needle buried below empty.

The air smells of asphalt and desperation. The No-tells mock me. The hookers roll their eyes at me. My stomach growls a low rumble like an approaching locomotive. My phone's battery is at 3%. The world feels like a paper cut you don't notice until it stings.

I'm supposed to be at my buddy Carl's place up in Everett for his big barbecue. Carl's been hyping this wingding for weeks—ribs, burgers, lots of beer. He won't stop talking about it. Everyone's there: Carl, his gf Lena, our old crew from the messenger days at Flatty, maybe even that knob Sully with the soul patch who smells like day-old Aqua Velva.

Here I am, 20 miles from the shindig, stranded like a dinghy in the desert. Empty tank, empty pockets, and a head swimming with excuses that are about as sturdy as the foil Carl likely swiped from the diner for his grill. I cannot lie, they're dissolving faster than a sugar cube in a hurricane, these excuses of mine.

I kick the Tercel's tire. It only scuffs my boot. The sun turns the avenue into a shimmering mirage. Cars zip by, their driver's faceless blurs who don't care about my predicament. I check my wallet for the tenth time, hoping some forgotten Jackson will materialize. All I've got is a crumpled receipt from a gas station burrito and a loyalty card for a coffee shop that went out of business ten years ago. My bank account is as empty as my stomach.

I could call Carl, but the thought makes my gut twist. He'd laugh, sure, but then he'd ask why I didn't fill up before I left. Then I spent my last ten spots on a sixer and a scratcher that didn't even win me a free play. I can hear his voice, that mix of pity, judgment, and disgust as if he's my dad instead of a guy who once got stuck in a kiddie slide at the Puyallup Fair.

So I start walking. The sidewalk is littered with trash—soda cans, cigarette butts, syringes, a single pink flip-flop, a turquoise bra, spent crack pipes, condom wrappers. My shoes crunch against the debris, each step a reminder of how far I am from where I'm supposed to be. I tell myself I'll figure it out. I always do. But the excuses are piling up like unpaid bills. I'm running out of ways to dodge them.

A mile down the road, I spot a 76 station, its neon sign flickering like it's on its last legs, its orange ball fading, and "76" decals cracked. The place looks like it hasn't been renovated since Reagan was President—peeling paint, rusty pumps, and a clerk behind the counter who's staring at his phone watching a video of a black cat trotting set to a twangy guitar riff from "Ghost Riders in the Sky."

I push through the glass door. The bell jingles a sad chime. The air smells of stale coffee and motor oil.

The clerk doesn't look up. He's fat with a patchy beard and a name tag that says "Gary." I clear my throat, and he glances at me, eyes half-lidded like I'm interrupting his personal time with cat videos.

I give it the old college try.

"Hey, there," I say with a pathetic smile, leaning on the counter. "My car's out of gas a mile back. Any chance you got a gas can I could borrow? I'll bring it right back."

Gary chews on a toothpick, unimpressed.

"No can," he says. "Store policy."

I nod, like this makes perfect sense.

"Okay, cool. Maybe you could spot me a gallon? I'm good for it. My buddy's got cash, I'm headed to his place now."

Gary's eyes narrow.

"No credit, no gas," he says, eyes glued to his phone.

My smile becomes even more insincere, the kind I use when I'm trying to charm my way out of trouble.

"Listen, Gary, I get your policy, but I'm in a bind. My car's blocking the shoulder, it's a hazard. You know how the cops are around here. They'll tow it faster than you can say 'abandoned vehicle '. You don't want that on your conscience, do ya?"

He doesn't blink as he switches over to AI disaster videos on Facebook.

"Not my car, not my problem."

I'm losing him. Time to pivot.

"Alright, hear me out, please. My phone's dead, so I couldn't check my bank, but I got paid yesterday. The app's just slow to update. Happens all the time. I'll Venmo you double tomorrow, I swear."

Gary snorts, a sound like a deflating balloon.

"Venmo? You think I'm an underage girl? Cash or card."

My mind scrambles.

"Hey, I know. What if I work it off? Sweep the lot, clean the bathroom, whatever you need. I swing a pretty mean mop."

He finally looks up from his phone, but it's not the expression of someone inclined to give me a desperate break.

"You gonna mop your way to a full tank? Pal, get outta here."

I'm out of angles, but I can't leave empty-handed. I scan the store for something, anything, to bargain with. My eyes land on a display of beef jerky, the kind that looks like it's been sitting there since the store opened.

Inspiration hits.

"Trade you," I say, pointing at the jerky. "My watch for a couple packs of that. Then you give me a gallon of gas. Fair deal."

Gary glances at my wrist, where my digital watch sits, its plastic band cracked and facing scratched from years of wear. "That thing's worth less than a $3 bill," he says. "Now get lost, I'm busy."

I'm about to launch into another excuse—something about how the watch was a gift from my grandpa, who wore it when he stormed the beach at Iwo Jima, sentimental value, so on and so forth—when the door jingles behind me.

A guy walks in, mid-thirties, with a long beard wearing a black T shirt with a white Punisher skull and a trucker cap with a Bass Pro logo. He's carrying an empty gas can. He nods at Gary. Gary nods back.

"Hey Brett," he says.

"Gonna fill this up, Gar'," Brett says, sliding a ten across the counter. "Pump three."

I see my opening.

"Hey there," I say, turning to him. "You heading north? My car's about a mile south down the road, out of gas. Could you spare a splash from that can? I'm trying to get to my buddy's barbecue up north, big family thing, don't wanna let 'em down."

Brett sizes me up, his eyes lingering on my scuffed boots and the sweat stains on my shirt.

"Family thing, huh?" he says. "Where's this barbecue?"

"Everett. My buddy Carl's place. He's got this whole spread—ribs, coleslaw, the works. I'm supposed to bring the, uh, potato salad."

I wince. Potato salad? Sheesh! Carl wouldn't trust me with a bag of Lay's.

He raises an eyebrow.

"Potato salad? You don't got a bowl or nothing."

I pat my pockets as if a bowl will materialize in there.

"Yeah, uh, my girlfriend's bringing it. She's meeting me there. Traffic's a mess, you know how it is."

Brett doesn't buy it, but he doesn't call me out.

"I'm only going as far as Lynnwood," he says. "Can't help you with gas, but I can give you a lift to a bus stop."

A bus stop. Great. I guess my car will be okay. I hope so. I pray so. I don't have money for a bus, but I nod like it's a lifeline. Beats staying here with Gary.

"Appreciate it, man. You're a lifesaver."

We walk out to his F150 with a bumper sticker that reads, "Keep Honking, I'm Reloading." He tosses the gas can in the bed and climbs in. I slide into the passenger seat, the vinyl hot against my jeans. The cab smells like pine air freshener and cigarettes. My empty stomach churns.

As we pull onto the highway, he glances at me.

"So, this barbecue. You close with this Carl guy?" he asks.

"Oh, yeah," I tell him, leaning back like I'm relaxed. "Known him since high school. He's like a brother. Always has my back, you know?"

"Uh-huh," he says, clearly not convinced. "And you didn't call him when your car died?"

I hesitate, then dive into another excuse.

"Phone's dead, man. Charger's busted. I was gonna borrow one at the gas station, but Gary wasn't having it. Guy's got a heart of stone."

Brett chuckles, a dry sound that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Gary's alright. You just gotta know how to talk to him."

I nod, like I'm taking notes.

I'm running out of steam. Every excuse feels like a brick I'm stacking on a wall that's about to collapse. We ride in silence for a few miles, the highway stretching out like a bad decision.

My mind drifts to Carl's barbecue, the smell of charcoal and sizzling meat, the clink of beer bottles. I'm not just missing the food—I'm missing the chance to belong, even if it's just for a night.

The guy drops me at a bus stop in Lynnwood, a sad bench next to a strip mall.

"Good luck with your potato salad," he says sounding both amused and full of pity.

"Thanks, man," I say, climbing out. "I owe you one."

He waves me off and drives away, his taillights fading into the dusk. I sit on the bench, the metal cold through my jeans.

My phone's dead now, no bars, no hope.

The strip mall's mostly dark, just a laundromat and a pawn shop still open. I could try to hock something, but all I've got is the watch Gary wouldn't take and a wallet full of nothing.

A bus pulls up, its brakes hissing like an exasperated sigh. The driver, an older woman with a perm and a no-nonsense stare, opens the door.

"You getting on?" she asks.

I stand, patting my pockets again, like I'm waving a magic wand to make them stuffed with cash.

"Uh, I might've left my wallet in my car," I say. "Any chance you could let me ride to Everett? I'll pay double tomorrow, I swear."

"No fare, no ride," she says without a blink.

I nod, stepping back.

"Fair enough. My bad."

The door closes, and the bus pulls away, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust.

I sit back down, the weight of the day pressing on my chest. The excuses don't work anymore—not on Gary, not on the trucker, not on the bus driver, not even on myself. I think about Carl, probably cracking a beer right now, telling everyone I'll show up eventually, like I always do. But I won't. Not tonight.

A guy shuffles by, pushing a shopping cart full of cans. He stops, looks at me, and digs in his pocket.

"Got a buck?" he asks.

I laugh, a bitter sound that echoes in the empty lot.

"Man, I ain't got a dime."

His chin dips, and shuffles off.

For the first time all day, I don't have an excuse. Just the truth: I'm broke, stuck, and alone.

The highway hums in the distance, indifferent. I lean back on the bench, close my eyes, and let the night swallow me whole.