Page 125 of Wayfarers

Knox

“Hey, I’m not feeling this gas station,” I say oh-so-casually, in spite of my screaming bladder and even more loudly howling conscience. “Let’s hit another one.”

“You’re not feeling this gas station? It’s a Conoco, Knox, not a sparsely attended nightclub.”

“I know, but.”

“But we’re already here.”

“I’m trying to boycott Conoco.”

“First of all: Why? Second of all: literally the last gas station we stopped at was a Conoco and you uttered not a peep.”

“Uh. Because of the oil spill.” (I assumed there was one.)

“What oil spill?”

“The one in the Gulf of Mexico.” (I assumed there was one.)

“That was BP.”

“Oh.”

Sylvie parks in front of a gas pump.

Now I’m really in a bind. I have to pee too bad to wait for her to gas up, but I can’t go in. “Can we please just go to the one across the way?” I don’t even want to get out of the van to run to the other gas station.

“The one where gas is two cents more per gallon?”

“Please?”

Sylvie sighs. “Whatever.” She starts the van, puts it in gear, and drives away.

Sylvie

“What was that all about?”

“Nothing,” he says, buckling up one-handed. The Conoco and the Shell loom large behind us.

“Seriously, though. What was that all about?”

“Nothing.” He’d sound surly if you didn’t know him. I guess I know him, because I hear hurt in his voice instead. Or fear?

“Knox,” I ask, not really sure what the answer to this question could be, “what happened to you in that gas station?”

“You didn’t want to talk about Cal. I don’t want to talk about this.”

We merge onto I-39. Springfield, the sign says. One hundred ninety-two miles.

I try a lighter tack. “Explosive diarrhea in the bathroom? No toilet paper? Had to buy a whole new set of Conoco-branded clothes?”

His mouth twitches. “No.”

“No?”

“Honestly I should probably just say yes. Because what happened sort of felt like that. Emotional diarrhea.”

“Was it—”