Little America

By Milo Straghalis

I crashed the 2004 Tacoma into a laundromat. It was a controlled crash, the kind that feels like it’s happening in slow motion when you’re in it. In the deep of the night, there was no sound at all. In fact, I barely knew it was happening until my front bumper was properly impaled by a washing machine drum. Luckily the place was empty, and the only casualties were among property and personal possessions. Clothes oozed out of every machine. I guess this is the kind of small place where you can trust people to not nip your stuff if you aren’t looking. Probably because what would you do with them? Sell them to your neighbor whose neighbor knows the rightful owner? Soap bubbles floated up and all around the car—piñata crash confetti. I smelled the mix of detergent and burned rubber and was reminded of an esoteric candle I once saw in a shop. I didn’t buy it but stole the name for a poem I never wrote.

I got out of the truck to stretch my legs. It felt dumb to do, in the middle of this scene, but I’d been driving for six hours with only one break and state-specific radio stations to keep me company. The barbeque Slim Jims I bought at the last rest stop were somewhere in the rubble—they suddenly seemed unappetizing now. A washing machine in the back was still running its course, the oceanic hum making things feel like nothing had happened. Beneath the laundromat’s lurid light that had somehow survived the blow, I saw sundry garments strewn about my truck’s hood. I picked out a pair of faded coveralls here, school basketball shorts there, but the piece that demanded most of my attention was a bright green crewneck with a four-leaf clover just touching the windshield wipers. I had never seen a four-leaf clover before, even in a two- dimensional space. I just knew the concept. Seeing as no one was around and I had already caused damage to most of the load, I put it on over my white tee. It was still slightly wet, the cotton clinging to me like it was desperate to never be taken off again.

With this recent sartorial upgrade, I realized I should find some help. I saw a light at the end of the road and headed towards it. On the walk over, I saw what looked like a four-leaf clover peaking up from the cracked road. Funny when you see something for the first time and then start to see it everywhere. I wasn’t fully sure, though, and didn’t want to look closer to find out I was probably wrong. The light belonged to the proverbial American interstate gas station. Everything about it just looked “classic.” Everything in its place and stuck in time, like a film set. The thing I always wondered about these places is: where do the people who work here live? I walked in and was met by a twerp of a teenager reading a monster truck magazine. She didn’t have a nametag on, but I called her George in my head.

“I ran into some trouble up the road, do you know where I could get some help with my truck?” She looked up slowly from her literature.

“We have lotto tickets for sale.”
 “Nice. But I—”
 “Powerball, Mega Millions, scratch offs...”
 “I just need some help with the truck for now. I spun off and crashed it in that 

laundromat up there. Do you at least have a phone I could use or something?” “Got plenty of snacks too.” 

“I’m lucky I’m not hurt. The truck’s definitely damaged, but I think it could be okay if we get a mechanic. Is there one in town?” 

George’s eyes went back down to her magazine. I submitted to her ennui and took a lap around the store. The green color-dyed water from my sweatshirt dripped behind me, leaving behind a trail that looked like GPS navigation. I had a craving for a refreshing drink, something to bring some life into me. It was just starting to sink in that I didn’t have a car, ruined a local business and still had four hours more to travel. I grabbed a six-pack of Miller Lite, union made stuff, and went back to George. 

“Okay I’ll take this. What about the mechanic?”
 “$5.99”
 “Is that where you do your laundry? You won’t be able to anymore.” “Receipt?”
 “Handwashing... But I really do need some help with the truck. It’s pretty—" “Yeah yeah, take my car in the back there. Drive into town it’s a straight shot. 

There’s a gas station with a mechanic there. Don’t know if he’ll be up though. Drive back when you’re done.” I handed her the money and she slid me the keys. Judging from the fob, it was a newer model. I wondered why this gas station didn’t have an on- site mechanic, and even stranger, why the laundromat was so separated from the general populous. 

Outside and around back, I sat on the curb. I could see George’s car underneath a bur oak—a hatchback covered in punk bumper stickers with a Colorado license plate. It was warm out and the Millers were calling to me. Athwart my better judgment, I knocked down three of them back-to-back. The chilly liquid slid down my throat, simultaneously rejuvenating and sedating me. 

Wobbling to the car, I thought I saw another four-leaf clover. This time, I knew it wasn’t true. The car’s interior was neater than I imagined based off my limited experience with George. She was tough, but I could see now it was the kind of tough that took organization seriously. I struggled with inserting the key into its hole and for a moment considered going back inside. I got it though, and the mission had begun with the ignition’s start. Back on the interstate I drank a fourth one. There was a light far down the road—the second of the night for me—that presumably belonged to the mechanic. 

In some ways it felt like I was driving better than ever. Staying neatly in the double yellows, hands on the wheel at two and ten, eyes straight ahead. I turned on the radio and Waylon Jennings started playing. Snow fences and billboards advertising Little America Motel floated by. The glowing pupils of deer sprinkled the landscape, mirroring the stars in the pitch-black sky. As I finished the fifth can I did something I had never done before. Crushing it against the top of the hatchback, I threw it out the window. I barely heard it hit the pavement underneath the explosion of sound coming from the engine. I turned Waylon up; the mechanic’s light was getting closer.