Despite everything, Lacey O’Toole really liked her job. Being a gas station attendant wasn’t exactly the most glamorous thing in the world (and she did feel a bit of embarrassment when she accepted a friend request from her high school English teacher, Mr. Fine, and she had to tell him that she worked at a gas station), but that was okay with her, Lacey didn’t expect glamor in her life nor did she want it.
What she did want was to keep busy, feel productive and keep herself from thinking about Certain Things That Were Not Helpful (CTTWNH for short), and working double shifts at the True Blue did that for her. She worked Friday through Wednesday, and usually she ended up working 9 or sometimes even 10 hours thanks to her coworker Lindsey who was habitually tardy in relieving her. At the end of each shift she would be so tired, so weary, that when she drove back to her parent’s house, climbed into her childhood bed, she could pretend that she didn’t feel the lack of her father’s presence, or hear her mother crying upstairs.
And, besides the psychological perks of repetitive, soothing tasks that took up her shift, the pay was pretty good and her bosses were alright. She got 12.50 an hour (because she worked nights, the alternate attendants got paid 10.50 and hour for day shifts) and her supervisor/store owner, Mrs. Cabot, was a bit uptight, and kind of demanding, but was never rude to Lacey, which was greatly appreciated. Ms. Cabot had sent a lovely bouquet of white roses to the O’Toole household when Lacey’s father (finally, thankfully, even though Lacey would never say this to anyone, even in her own mind) had passed after his long illness. Lacey kept one of them, and preserved it in silica, she had the idea to put it in a resin pyramid or something but didn’t go through with it; it seemed kind of morbid to make a chachki to commemorate her father’s death.
So, all things considered it was a pretty sweet gig. She wasn’t really a people person, but none of her night-time regulars ever seemed interested in the long, pointless conversations that irritated her, and she had never encountered a crazy person during a night shift (which her mother had been particularly worried about when she heard about Lacey’s new job).
And even if she did encounter a crazy person, or a serial killer, or a sex trafficker, or whatever kind of scary man that wandered around at night and made middle aged women fearful, Lacey knew that she could hold her own pretty well. Lacey was a big woman, 6’1” to be exact, so she wasn’t really the type of gal you could grab by the waist and drag kicking and screaming into a white van. As her grandmother used to say, in an attempt to be kind, Lacey was not the kind of girl who could walk quietly.
Lacey used to be so damned ashamed of her size, because in middle school and high school, being fat and tall was the worst thing that could happen to a girl besides falling pregnant. Several times throughout highschool, something weird had happened to her, like she’d get these episodes of an awful sense of heightened of self awareness. She’d be sitting in class or in the cafeteria, and would realize that she was the tallest person in the room, or she’d feel air on her arms or love handles and realize how big she really was, and then, she’d have a panic attack. Or at least she thought that’s what they were, she didn’t fall out of her chair hyperventilating, or begin tearing at her hair like the people on TV, but she would lose the ability to breathe, or think about anything else, and she’d get this feeling, like someone was watching her.
Lacey didn’t need a psychologist to figure those episodes out for her though, she knew why she was so anxious about being observed, and being tall, and being observed while being tall. She’d been bullied horrendously from the ages of 11 to 14 by a group of boys her age, Richard Merkins, David Garcia and the fucking worst of them all, the sweaty, pimple-ridden, hygiene-hating, Liberty Karlsson. God, stupid, idiotic Liberty, Liberty of the nicknames, of the taunts, of the spitballs, of the very un-clever but hurtful one liners. She had alot to thank Liberty for though, Liberty was the first person to ever show her how good it could feel to be so damned big, he was the first person to ever boost her self esteem in a meaningful way.
When she was 14, on the last day of 8th grade, she beat the literal piss out of Liberty Karlsson on the bus ride home.
She’d been sleeping in her seat, her head cushioned by her bright mass of red curls as she leaned against the window, when she felt the sudden touch of liquid on her cheek. She opened her eyes and turned her head to see the Liberty’s mean blue eyes staring back at her; he was leaning over the backrest that separated her seat from his, a 16 ounce can of Mountain Dew in his hand. She looked at him, and back at the soda, it occurred to her the can must be warm because there was no condensation or frosting on the metal. He must’ve been carrying it in his backpack she supposed, he seemed to eat candy and drink soda more than normal food.
Lacey felt unusually calm, she was used to this kind of thing, what was the point of getting worked up, over and over again? It wouldn’t change anything, it would just make things worse; Liberty and his boys were like, terrorists or something, they couldn’t be reasoned with or talked to. They didn’t care if they hurt her, really, really hurt her, because that was exactly what they wanted. So Lacey had decided to try and starve them, it didn’t seem to be working, but it was the best solution she could come to.
Lacey stared at his serene, blemished face. She thought (like she had many times before, but would never tell anyone, not even her favorite girlfriend at the time, Eliza Byrne) that Liberty could be really handsome if he wasn’t so awful, and didn’t smell so weird. He had an oval face with high cheek bones, his nose was long and straight, his hair and eyelashes were a bright, buttery yellow, his skin was broken out with large swathes of acne (several blemishes looked painful and infected, like several smaller pimples had merged into one) but the skin underneath was a fascinating cream color, like vanilla cake batter.
Liberty took another pull from the luke-warm Mountain Dew, pursed his thin, pink lips, and spit an arc of fizzy soda into her face, and grinned at her. The grin said, “Do something, you stupid fucking bitch. Why don’t you just go ahead and do something?”
The previous sad and resigned calm disappeared almost instantaneously, and was replaced by a cocktail of rage, revulsion, and profound hatred. Lacey had never felt anything like it before, and had never felt something like it since, even into her adulthood. (Sometimes she would think of that day, that moment, and wonder where that feeling came from, and if it would ever appear to her again. She would wonder if the rage came from inside of her, like oil from a deposit, buried just beneath the surface of her psyche, black and oozing; or if it came from Liberty, as if all of his ugliness had been sent from his person to Lacey’s, like some kind of emotional pregnancy. She liked to think that it was the latter of the two, sometimes needed it to be the latter, or else she would never be able to trust herself, to know that she was alright, a good kid, someone who wasn’t a danger to the people around her, but she didn’t really know. So, the topic of “Lacey’s disposition as a Normal Person or Psychopath” always went into the Things That Were Not Helpful list, for later review.)
Liberty’s mouth opened to say one of his stupid little quips (no doubt Liberty thought of himself as a master of comedic timing, some kind of adolescent boy version of Joss Whedon) when Lacey’s fist connected with his chin.
The impact made a sound like a pressed ham hitting a tile floor, and it sent a painful vibration all the way up to Lacey’s shoulder, which throbbed for hours later. Liberty’s head repelled backwards from the force of the punch, bounced off of the seat back behind him and came forward again, his body stilled and he looked up at Lacey with a look of shock so complete it was almost comical. The shock softened his face, and he could’ve been all of 10 years old.
Lacey didn’t care.
She pulled the rest of her body over the seat back using the strength in her arms to push herself forward, and towards the boy in the seat. One of Liberty’s stupid little friends, (she doesn’t remember which one, even now, she was too focused on the task of beating the shit out of the person she hated most) had started yelling after the punch and had tried to force Lacey off of the kid, but Lacey had been too heavy, even back then.
Lacey had landed (rather painfully) knee first into Liberty’s stomach and some liquid, thin and hot, soaked Lacey’s pant leg. “Don’t. You. Ever. Fucking. Touch me! Ever! Ever!” Lacey screamed into his face, while she used her left hand to strike him repeatedly in the face.
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
The skin on her palm tingled and throbbed, her throat felt scratchy from the force of her scream, and the smell of Liberty’s urine was making her feel sick, but despite it all, she felt so good.
She’d never been so…. in her own body before (she would of course experience something similar in her later years, like during anxiety attacks or sex, but that was still a long ways off for her at the age of 14), she was aware of the rush of momentum that carried her fist forward into Liberty’s face, the vibrations that filled her chest and head as she screamed into his face, the prickle of nerves along her back and nerves that made her skin sizzle. She felt so alive. She felt so happy to be so big, to be so strong.
And then, Mr. Garvey, the elderly black man who drove the bus, was pulling her back from Liberty, first by the collar of her shirt, then by her waist so that he could drag her down the narrow aisle, away from Liberty and all her other classmates. Lacey was a feral cat, spitting and kicking, stretching her arms out as far as she could in a desperate attempt to reach Liberty again.
“Okay, okay that is enough Lacey, that is enough!” He carried her down the steps and through the door, where he deposited her on a moist grassy curb. The sky overhead was vibrant blue, and the air had smelled of the engine exhaust and all Lacey could think of was how much her palm hurt, and how good it felt.
However the illusion was kind of broken when she looked up to see Mr. Garvey scowling above her, arms crossed over his chest. “What is wrong with you? Beating on that poor boy like that, you could’ve hurt him! Bad! Worse than you already did!” His voice was paternal and firm, and reminded Lacey so much of her grandfather that she felt a flash of shame and indignant rage.
“He started it Mr. Garvey! He always does, he’s so horrible and I wa-,” Mr. Garvey held a broad callused palm up in an abrupt movement, and she closed her mouth with resentment and embarrassment. “I know how he is Lacey, and I know you’ve been dealing with this from him for a long time, but you’re better than that Lacey, you’re not some wild animal. He’s had a tough life, have some compassion.”
Lacey had always liked Mr. Garvey, he’d been the driver for the No. 4 bus for years, and he was one of the few childcare professionals she knew who seemed to actually like children, but in that moment, she hated him.
Why was it on Lacey’s shoulders to be kind? To be sweet? To have compassion for a little fucking monster like Liberty? Why wasn’t it expected of him? Why did he get compassion when she hurt him back but she never got any all the times he’d spit on her, or made her cry?
She wanted to growl, bare her teeth and sink them into Liberty’s stupid be-pimpled cheekbone and hear him scream, scream for all the things he’d done for her, all times he’d made her cry, all the times when he foolishly thought he could take from her and not have to give anything back.
She wanted to be the animal Mr. Garvey said she wasn’t. But he was right, she wasn’t an animal, but a human girl, so she pulled her knees to her chest and tucked her head down, so no one could see the tears of misery and rage that welled in her eyes.
Mr. Garvey called Lacey and Liberty’s parents, and then their homeroom teacher and principle to report the incident, and when Lacey got home, her father was sitting at the table, waiting for her.
He and Lacey had the same face, full cheeked with skin the color of cold butter and thin red eyebrows. His eyes were a different color though, they were a spooky shade of hazel and Lacey’s were a muddy brown, which she hated. She hated all the differences between them, she wanted to be just like her dad, wanted to feel the closeness she saw between him and her brother Russ, but could never seem to reach it. She would always be a girl, always apart from them, always in need of restraint or protection or grooming or educating. She felt like as James O’Toole’s only daughter, she was always on the verge of embarrassing him, or shaming him, or letting him down in some kind of way, and today she finally had.
“Hi Daddy,” she said, eyes on the floor, hands at her sides. “Hi Lacey, go ahead and sit down for me,” he nodded to the seat across from him, arms crossed over his chest and straining in his blue policeman’s uniform. Lacey did as she told, sliding into the wooden dinner chair, placing her hands on the table in front of her.
“I want to say, first of all, that you’re not in trouble, I know that boy has been bothering you for awhile.” She nodded, still staring at her hands, she didn’t trust herself to speak because she was afraid she’d begin crying, and she hated crying in front of her father, she wanted him to see that they were made of the same stuff, and be proud of her.
“Also, I won’t be telling your mother about this, she’s still at her book club and I’m not going to interrupt her,” he sighed and rubbed his dry palms together, “I know things have been tense between you two girls, and I don’t want to make things worse.” Lacey nodded again, more fervently this time.
“I’m only going to say this once, because I trust you to listen, but this cannot happen again.” Lacey looked up then, to meet his eyes. “Daddy,” she began, “he started it, he spat at me, what was I supposed to do?”
He held up his large hands in a placating gesture, “Don’t get your water hot, I’m not saying you should just sit there and take it, but you can’t just beat on people like that. It’s not acceptable, and it’s not becoming of you Lacey. That kid is going through a lot that you can’t understand, and I know you don’t know anything about it, but you need to remember everyone deserves compassion.”
She felt the same simmering rage she felt towards Mr. Garvey overflow and spew out of her mouth, “Russ punched Donnie Keats in the mouth 2 weeks ago! He busted his lip and he bleed all over the science lab! Everyone talked about it! He didn’t even get in trouble!”
Her father narrowed his eyes, “I just told you, you’re not in trouble.” Lacey threw her hands up, “I know, but Russ didn’t even get a talking to! I asked him, he said you just patted him on the shoulder and told him to be careful!”
His face grew red with irritation “Your brother was defending you, Donnie said something disrespectful and Russ corrected him.”
“So Russ can defend me but I can’t defend myself?”
“I never said once said that.”
“You implied it!”
Her father placed his hands on the table with a thud, “Okay, okay, since you seem so intent on misunderstanding me, I’ll tell you again. You cannot behave in the way you did today, climbing on top of someone and pummeling them is not morally or legally acceptable. Not to mention dangerous, you’re a girl Lacey, there’s gonna be time where picking fights with boys won’t turn out in your favor.”
He grabbed one of her hands from across the table and held it in his own. His hands were large and manly, callused and covered in a dusting of coppery arm hair, they made her own hands look positively dainty and lady-like.
“I know you’re brave, and I know you’re head strong, but you’re also kind, and you always do what you think is right. It’s what I admire most about you, it’s the part of you that makes me the most proud. I want you to think about if it was kind or morally right to humiliate that kid in front of his friends. If you’re the kind of person who wants to hurt others in that way.” His eyes were locked in on hers, and gleamed with tenderness and honesty. Lacey ripped her hand away and ran upstairs, where she spent the rest of the night crying.
Lacey didn’t like to dwell on that memory, or at least, she didn’t like to anymore, not after her father had passed. It made her feel itchy with grief, love, and shame; she missed him terribly, but was glad that he wasn’t sick anymore. She wondered if her father was still proud of her, if he, wherever he was, still thought of her as just and kind and brave.
No, that question also went into the Certain Things That Were Not Helpful category, to be reviewed never. And there was no better place to not review memories then at her night shift at the True Blue.
The night that changed her life, was a Monday night, were she was was working her usual shift.
An order of candy had come in on the truck the afternoon before, but of course, Lindsay said she couldn’t pull the boxes out of the store room, label them, and stock their contents on the shelves because of her ‘heart condition,’ so Lacey was stuck doing it. But honestly, she didn’t really mind, she liked things that were slow and methodic, she liked doing things over and over till they put her in a trance, it made her feel calm. She didn’t understand Lindsay, or people like her, people who were so afraid of doing things, like opening some boxes or mopping a floor was the worst thing that could happen to a person. She wondered what they did all day, these non-doers, did they just think and breathe? Lie in bed and masturbate while watching Judge Judy? Her guess was as good as any she supposed.
She was taking the candy out of one of the boxes (Twix bars they were, some kind of limited edition with extra caramel or whatever, gross) and taking stock on a pad of paper when she heard a loud thunk from the glass door adjacent to the cashier’s stand and froze.
Her heartbeat began to accelerate slightly in her chest, God I hope no one’s fighting out there, I don’t want to have to deal with that! A couple of fist fights had broken out in front of the store through-out Lacey’s employment, mainly college kids and one time a pair of truckers, and all of them had been drunk or intoxicated in someway. They weren’t that serious but they still scared her, what if someone got stabbed or something, and she was the only one to keep them alive until the ambulance came? Or someone got shot and she would have to be a witness in a trial?
She didn’t like responsibility, not big responsibility like that, where she had the power to save or destroy someone’s life, who was she to decide all that? She was just some chick who worked in a gas station.
She turned her head to look up at the curved mirror that hung in the left corner of the store, a straight shot from where her plexi-glass enclosed cashier’s cubby was, and saw the lower half of a man’s body, behind the glass door of the front entrance. Okay, so one guy I guess, slamming on the door?
That situation was less scary than a gun fight or stabbing, but still kinda creepy, who bangs on the door of a business to see if it’s open instead of just trying to open it? Someone cracked out of his mind, that’s who. Someone who stabs gas station cashiers for the paltry 150 bucks in their tills.
Lacey sprung through the gate to her cashier’s alcove, keys in one hand, taser in the other, and phone in her back pocket; fully ready to shove her intimidating 250 pounds worth of weight against the swing door and lock it.
The plan was pretty good for a self designated not-thinker, but it kind of fell flat on its face the minute Lacey made eye contact with the man standing in front the glass door.
The man standing in front of the glass door had been dead for 3 months.