Underground Storage Tanks

Into the guardrails. Through the metal. Everywhere into the sky.

I’ve thought about it before. Haven’t you?

Over the edge.

I look down at my phone, vibrating with an incoming text.

“Idgie, you’re gonna kill me but I can’t meet you tonight! I’m so sorry, I hope you haven’t already left!”

No.

Of course not. Then I’d be on time for our plans to have drinks. And you’re always fifteen minutes late, Serena. Obviously I haven’t left twenty minutes before our meet-up tonight. For me to tell you how I’ve been.

Oh thanks for asking! I’ve been an absolute wreck and I think I’m really depressed maybe? And you?

Honestly? I probably wouldn’t be that real. I’d most likely tell her I was good, ready for my single era. Hope she’d ask if I lost weight. Even though I actually had been eating, she should say I looked thin.

Because if nothing else, I can look good.

So no. I haven’t left yet.

Instead, I’m sitting in front of a ring light mirror. Again. Showered (for the first time in three days), and dried my hair, now a helmet of curlers as I sit here and do my face with magic marker.

That is, after exceptionally washing my face (also first time in three days), I have toned, moisturized, primed, and begun. Draw lines where we have all decided lines go, erasing lines where we all decided they shouldn’t.

I tap back. “Oh no r u ok”

She already exhausts me. I just have nothing left for texting. For people.

I fill in my brows, combing them upwards, as one does.

“Yeah. Dane made plans to surprise me. I feel awful but I kinda forgot it was our anniversary this weekend and… I feel so bad!!”

She doesn’t stop.

Keeps writing, tapping. Trying to fix it.

I can tell. Beneath her words, proof she’s feeling clumsy with herself. Dot dot dot.

Serena would want to explain it all away.

I peel off my moisturizing eye masks. The good ones.

She’d make a bigger fuss of it in order to not make a fuss of it. Thinking if she feels badly why she’s blowing me off, I won’t notice it as stingingly.

As if it would hurt me, if she told the truth?

Concealer. To cover my still puffy eyes. Mine has green undertones, but I really need to get a yellower one. I’m not covering blood broken on the skin’s surface, but the below-your-skin kind. Two big underground blue blood vessels. I’ve let them get out of control. Been bursting, leaking, exploding. Sad, and the proof is all over me, beneath my eyes.

It’s been on my list, to find a better concealer. But you know how it goes.

Dot dot dot.

“Idgie I told him I was coming to meet you and this was important and like, if it was any other day I’d do ANYTHING for you girl. But I guess he made plans and told me we’d celebrate tonight. I mixed up our dates and obviously would drop everything for you right now.”

Dots.

Dots.

“Can we do brunch tomorrow? Or like whatever you want?!”

Dots. “I feel like such an awful friend!!”

No.

I sweep away an errant strand, stopping it from touching my forehead. Looking in the mirror, I park it back into a curler along my crown. Little nozzle returned to its home, to be plump and pretty, not laid flaccid, loose, abandoned.

I look numb in the mirror. But coming together nicely, at least.

Dots dots dots.

Actually?

Skeptical.

Impossible Serena forgot it’s their anniversary. She hikes with him in makeup. She keeps her nails done in ballet slippers because, as she said, it’s “the chicest color if you ever get engaged; like you’re not trying too hard. That’s why all the girls in finales pick that polish you know. I read about it.”

Can you imagine, paying to get weekly manicures (every two if you’re short on cash, desperate), fresh with anticipation of the greatest day of your life? Only to experience them grow out — chipping, breaking, peeling, useless dead cells — by true life? And to do the whole thing over and over to yourself, hoping that best day is one day, this manicure?

Insanity.

But yeah, I can imagine it.

Not gonna lie. I started doing it too, and I wasn’t even dating him as long as she’s been with Dane. She’s almost thirty, it’s been years. I mean. I get it.

Dots dots dots.

Under the overpass, to the left where I’d land – crash? – is that old gas station. We all get depressed about that ugly patch of land, wrapped in chain link fence. Everything else? So cute down there: the shops, restaurants, little salons, workout studios and wellness centers. They made it adorable along an underpass. There’s even a fountain.

And then that. Neglected, barren old gas station. Smack dab in the middle of everything.

Eyesore. Drove us all crazy.

“It could be something so cute! Like that yoga studio they have in Ojai, you know which one I’m talking about?”

“Seriously! Or turn it into a beer garden like those cute little stations in Texas, right?”

“STOP IT, that’s like my dream you guys. No joke.”

But it can’t become anything.

One of the tanks leaked years ago, into the ground. Dead man’s land now.

“I know right? So sad to look at.”

“TYVM Shell, for ruining what could have been our dream spot in town. Would be the cutest bar you guys. Ugh.”

If I crashed into it, the gas station that was, would it still explode?

I think about googling this question, but wonder if I do die (should I turn left) and investigators check my last search histories (dying to know what happened, obviously), would I want that?

Actually, now I might spiral.

I unroll the curlers, back-tracking. Time traveling to earlier, earnestly wondering versions of self.

Would I want any of my history there? For the world to see?

Would you?

He used to like the way I put myself together. Said my friends wore too much makeup, had done too much to their faces. Said they should just stop, everything they did made them look older and totally fake. Plastic. In their 20s, looked 50. Didn’t know how their boyfriends found them attractive.

I took it as such a compliment when he said that.

Because honestly? I was doing exactly the same as my friends. And he couldn’t even tell.

But of course, I never did as much, nor as often, as them.

First of all I could barely afford the upkeep. I mean, it cost what some people spent on rent; I wasn’t that crazy! Also, I didn’t want to look unnatural. Like myself. But better. So. I only let them inject about forty units of botulinum between my brows and fifty more around my forehead and crow’s feet (preventative, of course), and a couple times a year a little refresh of hyaluronic acid into my lips, and sometimes, okay, a little filler into my cheeks. I’ll admit, I tried it.

And the hair, oh my goodness.

I had microneedles taken to my eyebrows (part of why my concealer leaned green, the raw skin reddened there, exactly where the Botox would dot all around my stimulated, eyebrow follicles). Lasers to everywhere else. Putting the hair where we decided it should go, removing it from where the consensus was hair had no place.

Some of my friends did even more treatments and procedures, and I don’t know how they paid. I was destroying my credit just trying to maintain my low maintenance tweaks. Hair extensions alone were killing me.

At least I stopped getting lash extensions. That was just smart.

But yeah. After a derm visit, I’d be particularly self conscious around him. Didn’t want him to see any proof. Bruising, or little dots, or side effects. I’d have been mortified if he knew I was doing what he deemed unattractive, fake. I’d rather die.

That’s why I kept it simple.

I googled about what happened on that lot, where the vacant gas station is.

After the storage tanks leaked, in 2015, a county investigation confirmed benzene and other dangerous chemicals that cause cancer were present. Based on this, the county opened a case to consider whether it should require the company to clean it up.

Shell has requested that the case be closed.

The county determined harmful chemicals at the site pose a low risk to people because it’s currently a vacant lot, and plans on closing its case against Shell.

If it does this, the land would remain as-is.

So sad, isn’t it?

The things people have done to our planet, and for what? Gas? I mean, people go to wars for oil, right? Kill, die for this stuff. Digging, burying explosive tanks that then poison the land and water. So dangerous and bleak to look at and think about. Once perfectly fine land, destined to be disgusting forever. Poisoned.

Unless someone takes some drastic measure, which never happens.

So. Forever an abandoned gas station, a vacant lot, seeping chemicals under the dirt, giving us all cancer, more or less.

Shame.

Well, that’s somewhere in my search history.

Maybe I’ll try to delete it all. Can’t hurt.

I gently apply my final eyeshadow.

I’m looking particularly good tonight, all things considered. I set down the brush, pick up my phone, and finally tap back. Old ballet slippers dancing, performing choreography.

“Ser, you deserve to celebrate with Dane tonight. I’m happy for you, for real. We can do something later. I’m good.”

Set it back down.

Honestly? Not to pump myself up or anything but this might be the best I’ve ever looked.

Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it before. Turning into the guardrails, flying for a few ephemeral, mesmerizing moments, imagining what that would feel like. Euphoric, perhaps.

Hugging the turn, knowing your exit is right there. Home and everything you have. So close. So familiar. Right blinker.

But you’d just jerk the wheel the other way, and it would change it all.

No, literally.

No indicator, just do it. They’d never see it coming.

But can I be truly honest? Serena does do a little too much. I think it’s her lighting situation. She has like, zero natural light in her place. So her highlighter is always too bright.

I never told her.

Oh, I bet Dane wouldn’t even get her that great of a ring anyways. He’d go for a big one versus a nicer cut and clarity, I’m sure. Because he’s like that. Showy, overcompensating. God, like their “celebration” tonight, I bet. I can just imagine it, she’ll take a thousand pictures and post the best ones, so I may not have to after all.

But yeah, I obviously know about rings because I’ve googled that too. I’m not like all the other girls who believe bigger is better. No, I can recognize quality, what’s real.

You know?

I don’t want to see any more of Serena’s dots. I’m almost done now. I have to finish the lashes. Fix them. There’s no point coming this far and not doing them. I clip them in. Magnetics are such a game changer. No. A life saver. Serena still gets lash extensions and everyone can tell she sleeps on her right side, all I’m saying.

And that’s what kills me. One thing I’m so sad about. He actually had a great job, and could’ve afforded a really nice ring that would’ve looked incredible on me. And like, ours wouldn’t have been performative. It would have been so tasteful and elevated. Like us.

Like we were.

I actually mentioned it to him one time.

“Wouldn’t it be amazing if someone turned that old gas station into a beer garden, or a bar or something?!”

“Sure.”

“No, but like hear me out. It could be so amazing. There could be landscaping with trees and stuff, and put a bar in the middle with swings(!) so people would come and take pics. Such a destination. And picnic tables everywhere, like at the beer garden we went to that one time? And like you could make it super cozy with outdoor movie nights and deejayed brunch on weekends and maybe even family friendly in one corner too so like, everyone could enjoy it, you know? Not just a bar for us. Turn something old and ugly into something beautiful for the whole community? It could have a neon sign—”

“Idgie. Absolutely no one with any business sense whatsoever is gonna spend millions – after buying the lot – investing years of environmental remediation to turn that piece of shit into a bar. Picnic tables, babe? They’d make it a mixed use commercial/residential multistory building. Squeeze every cent from tenants and residents. Even that is never happening. We’re talking time, money, government red tape, to build on land that’s been classified hazardous. An investor’s nightmare.”

He stops and looks down at me.

“I mean, sure, I obviously know that. But like, it could be a coffee shop in the mornings to make more money. People love coffee shops, everyone drinks coffee. I’m not an idiot. It could totally work and be super successful. Like, go viral even for turning something bad into something environmentally friendly? Aesthetically pleasing.”

“Sure babe. That’s a cute idea.” His smile almost looks like a smirk, but he’s rubbing my cool sculpted leg so I know it’s a smile, know that he loves me and respects me and thinks I’m the one.

Because then he confirms as much, saying to me, “You’re cute.”

Dots dots dots.

“Aw thank you Idg, you’re SUCH a good friend! And seriously wanna see you first thing, okay? You totally SHOULD go out tonight! I know it’s still early (SO sorry still) but you know what they say — best way to get over one person is to get under another LOL!!”

Quickly they come, follow-up dots. “OMG I’m sorry if #toosoon I’m the worst tonight. I love you and support you whatever you do okay girl!!”

All dressed up. Nowhere to go.

I could go for a drive. I could.

To the right. It’s like a reflection.

But left? He’d realize his mistake. Stunned how, even though he hurt me, I’m literally incredible. Breathtaking.

He had premium, and everyone else. Fucking regular.

What if I made one? Not a note, but the perfect final post. I’d have to ensure everything was flawless, extra patience blending tonight.

To post a photo looking this good requires a caption that would fuel them, you know? Something real.

Maybe dark, symbolic. No quotes, quotes are so dead.

Dot dot dot.

I’ll figure it out.

Through the rails.

Get myself over something alright. By crashing hard into that disaster living under us all.