No One Reads Kerouac Anymore*

I pull into the parking lot at work with the gnawing feeling/knowledge
I should be doing something better with my life. College grad
returns home, becomes convenience store clerk. The stuff dreams are
made of, straight out of a brochure promising debt and nothing. I
step out of my car and gawk for the nearest distraction before suicide
solves all of my problems.

The McDonald’s connected to Signal Convenience Store owns
a spotlight that beams into the Buffalo, MO, night sky. This baffles
me. Why does a fast food restaurant in a town of 2,500 people need
a spotlight? We don’t live in a post-apocalyptic world. No roving
bands of starving survivors seek rescue from death by cannibal. Perhaps
rural folk become entranced with the big ‘ole light in the sky. Ad
execs probably picture the Clampetts strolling inside a McDonald’s,
Jed taking off his cap, placing it over his heart and saying, “We saw
a strange ray of light up there in that big black empty thingy, and
by god if it didn’t point us right where we needed to be. Bless these 
golden arches.” Or maybe somebody got a great deal on a spotlight
and couldn’t pass it up.
 
“Jesus Christ, you’re finally here,” Rachel says as I walk into the
annoyingly bright convenience store. I recently added her to my roster
of imaginary sexual conquests. Half-Filipino and half-Mexican,
trim figure, thick black hair, and dark skin.
 
“JC is pissed, Rachel. Why the hell am I working tonight?”
 
“I had to fire Patti today.”
 
“For what?”
 
“Bouncing personal checks at work. She’d have Mike come in
and—”
 
“Yeah, I don’t care how she did it,” I say. “I mean, I knew she was
retarded, but damn, how long do you really expect to get away with
cashing bad checks at work?”
 
“Took us almost two months to figure it out,” Rachel says.
 
“I already knew this place was retarded,” I say.
 
“Most people fake being nice to their boss,” she says.
 
I look around. No one’s paying attention. People stand in line at
McDonald’s, but that’s across the building, past the chain link barrier
separating the two businesses from eleven p.m. to five in the morning.
 
“Those people don’t sell weed to their boss,” I say.
 
“Shit,” she says. “You’re gonna go to that well one too many times
and end up getting your ass fired.”
 
“Whatever will I do without all this?” I ask.
 
“Spare me,” she says. “One of these days poverty will erase that
too good for this job attitude you got.”
 
“I am too good for this job.”
 
“No, no,” Rachel says, “tell me how you really feel.” She grabs her
purse from underneath the counter and walks out.
 
Alone. Standing at register one. The chewing tobacco to my right,
the cigarette racks behind me. Pint and half-pint bottles below the
smokes. To my left, trucker speed and different variations of fake
Viagra that promise erections but only succeed in making you giggle
at funny names like Jackhammer and Bonez.