“Just the coffee?”

“A Long Way Past the Past” by Fleet Foxes played upon the speakers and leaked out the open windows as Tacitus found himself cruising out of Camp Pendleton. He drove east along the secondary highways without pace nor agenda. Through the winding hills of Fallbrook and Temecula, the quiet isolation of the 371, to the sudden dry of Palm Desert, he piloted the vehicle without a glance at the clock. California flowed past him like a song as he sat still and lucid. Everything that he owned jostled in excitement in the bed and the radio shuffled through a Spotify playlist titled “5 years”. It had been under construction for nearly as long. 

At Blythe, he turned north along the 95 as an August monsoon began to darken the sky above him. Feeling a sudden need to stretch his legs, he pulled into a small gas station outside of Lake Havasu and parked beside the single pump without a yellow bag upon its handle. Young Tacitus proceeded to fill the tank while checking the integrity of the luggage in the bed. In his haste to leave, he found that he hadn’t ensured the security of his bags, and after an inventory check, he found that the burgundy suitcase containing the majority of his clothing was nowhere to be found, while he specifically remembered packing it and placing it into the bed.  The wind must have caught the bag and placed it somewhere between Lake Havasu and Oceaside, CA.

In his frustration he looked up aimlessly and took note of a dust devil solemnly dancing in the dirt lot across the street. 

A brass bell announced his entrance as Tacitus crossed the threshold of the convenience store doorway. As he looked about to find the coffee, a mess of brunette hair hurriedly moved behind a row of shelves toward the cash register. He found the coffee, and as he poured his cup black, he looked over to see the owner of the hair sitting behind the register in a swivel chair, facing away and out the window. Her arms were crossed. 

As Tacitus approached the counter, she stuck a foot in the ground to swivel her about to face him. She bore a tired, wrinkled face and eyes as bright and blue as Caribbean waters. Her name tag read Suzy and she chewed gum as she spoke. 

“Just the coffee?”

“Just the coffee.”

She looked down and clicked and clacked for what Tacitus felt was much longer than would be necessary for a simple purchase of a cup of coffee. He looked closer to find that she was working with what appeared to be 1950’s technology. The way she argued with the machine was like watching a matador at work. It was methodical and ironic and ridiculous all at once. 

DING

“Dolla fiddy!” Suzy sang to the room, an audience of one. Tacitus suddenly found that he had forgotten the concept of currency as he padded his pockets to find them empty. His cheeks blushed and he felt silly and thankful that the station was empty besides himself and the cashier. 

“I'm so sorry. I’ll be right back,” he said. 

Tacitus jogged to the truck while leaving the coffee on the counter to show sincerity. He returned with cash in hand and an anxious laugh that was both his and his mothers.

“Forgive me, it’s been a day. Forgot to tie my luggage down too!” 

“Huh,” she grunted as she craned her neck out the window to see the unsecured luggage in question, as if verifying his claim. “Where you headin?”

“Flagstaff,” he replied curtly. 

She smiled politely although her eyebrows betrayed a kind indifference to his existence. As Tacitus moved to the door, he could nearly feel the air spin as she made her way back to the rear of the building to resume whatever activities encompassed the majority of her days. Tacitus imagined the things that she was doing back there as he drove north and away.