Gas Station Sushi (fiction)

Recently, I saw a writing challenge for "The Last Gas Station", for which one was asked to write a piece about the concept, rather than the reality. The concept of the last gas station, apparently, was the last chance to do something, or avert something, before a bad thing happens. Possibly the challenger had gotten it mixed up with The Last Chance Saloon, a similar concept with which I'm more familiar. 

I remembered a gas station I had once visited. In the middle of nowhere, it had blossomed out of the heat haze of the desert like a combination mirage and oasis, a vast edifice of neon light, cool breeze, flowing liquids and ice cubes.  I wrote about it, thought about the challenge a bit more and realized I loved the gas station part more than the "last" part.  Here it is. 

Gas station sushi

Three hundred miles of sagebrush emptied the tank of the Chevy Impala. The roadside billboards advertising the Arizona Travel Center had been appearing more frequently and the tall sign indicating the building itself materialized just as the tank indicator began to flash its red “E”. 

“Travel Center? It’s a gas station,” I said as we pulled away from the pump replete with regular unleaded and parked in the shade of a pylon bearing gas prices, the temperature (104 degrees) and the promise of a Grab’n’Go Hot Dog Bar.

“Wait till you get inside,” he said.

The glass doors swished open like the Starship Enterprise revealing the front line of displays. Slim Jims, Matador Jerky, All-American Jack Link’s Beef & Cheese. After navigating past these, and the racks of Pringles, Poppycock, popcorn and chips, and the wasabi peas and gummi bears, nuts and trail mix, wrapped bread and gum (Extra Icebreakers, Juicy Drop), we approached the long wall of refrigerators. Six glass doors held back neon-colored soft drinks, two the Beer Cave, one the Dairy Chilled Foods, one the wine (Refridgeriffic) and one (The Cool Zone) containing sushi. Little California Rolls in plastic trays, with plastic rows of grass separating the ginger from the wasabi, the chopsticks from the sachet of soy sauce, and each of them from the sushi. Eleven bucks.

He laughed. “Gas station sushi. Where I come from, it’s a phrase meaning take a chance on something dangerous, I guess. Or just a word for a good-looking bad idea.”

On the other wall, mirroring the refrigerators, the Hot Snacks. Under heat lights hot dogs rolled. In warm cabinets pies and grilled subs estivated in factory-sealed plastic bags. Nachos waited in cardboard trays for a squirt of liquid cheese. Next to the hot dog roller was a bank of the freshest-looking food I’d seen in days, beef franks, sweet pepper provolone sausages, bratwurst, Fenway Franks and Vegetarian Dogs. I was hungry. I chose a regular frankfurter, and from the hot dog buns, brioche buns, Hawaiian buns and Salty Pretzel Buns I chose pretzel. Sixteen fixins for hot dogs dwelt in black plastic wells behind a protective sneeze guard.  They were chili, jalapeno, sauerkraut, tomato slices, lettuce, diced onion, sweet relish, cheese, pickle spears, onion sour cream, kimchi, gochujang, Habanero Nuclear Blast, Kentucky Slaw and other, more orange, cheese, and bacon bits. I put sweet relish and diced onion on mine. There were dispensers you pressed down on to create wavy lines of sauce on your dog, and they were ketchup, yellow mustard, brown sauce, horseradish, mayo, salsa, buffalo wing sauce and Sriracha. I mashed down on mustard and mayo.

He chose sushi, a bright, cool tray of avocado-topped California Roll, dyed salmon-color Sake Sushi, deep red Tekka Maki and cool green Kappa Maki. We were five hundred miles from the nearest ocean.

*

I guess I am more comfortable now with American food. In my previous Christmas food story, Hotel Aperio, I concentrated on British food, which is way funnier (though the story itself isn't).