3:49am January 3rd
Robert Grey hung his latest work on the soft drinks fridge of the gas station. He was 19 years old and fresh out of not only high school, but also his goth phase, and he'd been looking around for a new identity to build the rest of his life around. He quite liked the idea of 'struggling artist', mainly because it sounded a lot more romantic that 'successful gas station clerk.' Van Gogh had been a struggling artist, although, he remembered, so had Adolf Hitler. Come to think of it, both had ended up committing suicide, one after cutting his own ear off and the other after invading Poland, so maybe it wasn't all it had cracked up to be. Perhaps it was the all that struggling that drove them mad. He decided that maybe he should remain a 'dabbler', better for his mental health that way, if not his chances of scoring with chicks.
Still, his was quite happy with his latest dabble. About a week ago this amazing looking chick had pulled up in a pink Ferrari. After pumping her gas, she'd come into the store, grabbed a can Pepsi off the shelf, opened it and started to down it before she'd even closed the fridge door. The Pepsi Cola Corporation had lost millions sales by not having a film crew there to capture the moment and turn it in a major advertising campaign. Robert had been there and she had instantly become his 'muse'. He'd been able to rewind the CCTV footage of the moment to serve as the basis for a primary sketch, and then he'd turned the scene into a 1940's style retro advert. He'd drawn her like they used to draw the pin-girls on the sides of the bombers. He'd even added the words 'Drink Pepsi Cola' and a whole bunch of copyright blurb at the bottom. It looked great, very authentic, if he said so himself. It was practically his magnum opus, although given that he'd accidently overhead his art teacher call his coursework 'juvenile wank fantasies', that possibly wasn't saying much.
It was another sign he was growing up. He'd cut his hair short, even though the black dye hadn't fully worked its way out yet and gotten himself a pair of smart trousers and a neutral coloured shirt, and started to dress and behave more like an adult. Had he not still been still awake and playing the Sister of Mercy loudly though mini-speakers connected to his phone, he's inner goth would have been totally exorcised. His style of art was evolving too, and this was the first full work of art he'd produced that didn't contain a mountain of skulls and rivers of blood. Still, the practice he'd put in on all the succubae had paid off in terms of the boobs and ass in this latest work, even if the horns and bat wings hadn't. He was even starting to get the faces right. He was thinking about starting a course on visual design when he could get the money together. It was probably the more practical career choice than just plain old art. There didn't seem to be as much struggling involved.
No sooner had he finishing hanging the picture to his satisfaction than he heard a car pull up at the pumps. Looking out the window, his heart skipped a beat -- it was the pink Ferrari again. She was there and already pumping gas.
Robert took the opportunity to look her up and down with the cool clinical eye of the professional, measuring her lines and ratios with a mathematical precision, dispassionately noting the natural and wonderful beauty inherent in the human form. My God, she's got great tits, Struggling, like many artists before him, not to get an erection, he tried to focus on her properly. Was being an artist really this hard, he thought. Did Titian spend all his time red faced and sweaty while painting his classical Greek nudes?
Any attempt to describe her by a man would inevitably start with them combining the body parts of their three favourite movie stars and finish with the words, "only, you know, hotter." (Any attempt by a woman would inevitably finish with the words, "just who the hell does she think she is."). Robert decided to start small, with an exercise his art teacher had suggested: start by describing her as if you're a police officer writing a formal report. Very well, she was six foot nothing, Caucasian, blonde, and guilty as sin. She was wearing a pair of tight fitting denim shorts, a bare midriff and tight pink top with short sleeves. She carried a small pink handbag. She was wearing sensible shoes, but only, Robert surmised, because she was driving.
She finished pumping the gas and came into the store. As she reached to open the drinks fridge, she stopped and did a double-take on the new poster hanging there. She spent a good few seconds looking at it and at her reflection in the glass. She'd been wearing a white skirt and jacket the first day she came in, and Robert had changed it to a sailor's uniform. He'd also added a few extra curls to the hair to match the period and a touch of Marilyn around the lips, so the picture wasn't quite one-to-one. Still she'd obviously noted the striking resemblance.
She half shrugged to herself and opened the fridge. The door opened away from Robert rather than towards him, which mean as she bent down to get a drink, he got another striking pose seared into both his artistic and animal brains. She took seemingly a unnecessarily long time to choose a drink, given that when she did finally pull out a can, it was just a Pepsi again. When she closed the door, Robert notice that the picture was missing. He'd never felt so validated in all his life.
She came to the counter, and almost wordlessly paid for the gas and a packet of cigarettes. By the time she left, Robert's budding young artist heart was struggling not to fall in love.
4:12am February 12th
It was a few weeks later. Now Robert measured out his life by the appearances of his muse. She came about once a week, but unpredictably. The gap could be three days or it could be eight days Having come once, he would know not to expect her for a few more days, but then his hopes would rise and rise, and be unrequited as often as not, until that exquisite moment when it happened and he found release.
When she did come it was always in the same way. First the convertible sports car pulled into the gas station so fast that you could hear the tires squeal when it stopped perfectly aligned with the pump. She'd pull herself over the doors of the convertible with agility. She'd bend over as she pumped the gas, she'd sashay her way into the petrol station, then she'd lean forward on the counter as she paid (Robert had never been sure if he was ass, leg or breast man and this combo nudged him in all three directions at once). If she was chewing gum she would buy a pack of smokes, but if she was smoking she'd buy a pack of gum. She'd thank him and leave. It was a transcendental experience.
The nice things about her visits, Robert thought to himself, was that there was no pressure. His nocturnal lifestyle hadn't allowed him much opportunity to mix with the opposite sex recently, but, in high school say, if a pretty girl came into you class or sat next to you, there was an impetus to act. You should talk to, impress her, ask her out on a date. If you didn't you were a loser. There was none of this with this woman. Every man who saw her would, and no man would ever think he could. He could only be three or four years her junior sure, but the idea of making an approach was so ridiculous that he could just feel good about being in her presence.
He didn't know her name, of course. His interaction with her had always been limited to the great corporate script that defined all customer/employee interactions. Still, he'd been practicing and was on the verge of being ask her if she had loyalty card without stammering too much. His inner monologue called her Barbie Ferrari after the car she drove and the fact that she should be banned for encouraging an unrealistic body image in young girls.
It was now past four in the morning which meant he'd almost given up on any kind of chance at nirvana for this shift. He'd returned to reading the book about post-modern art that he'd checked out of the library. He'd read either the first quarter of the book or the first half a page, depending on whether you counted the number of words that had reached his eyes or the number that had reached his brain. His phone was now playing Nick Cave, which suited his mood: dark and sophisticated. He was avoiding the Murder Ballads though. They made him too uncomfortable these days.
Then the amazing happened. She came. It was past four and she still came anyway. Except tonight things were not quite right.
For one, she overshot the pumps and had to reverse back, spinning the tyres bad-temperedly as she did so. Secondly, she didn't jump out of the car, she got out and slammed the door. She played with her nails in a distracted fashion while the car filled up. She marched to the door, then instead of coming directly to pay for the gas (picking up the gum/cigarettes at the counter), she went straight to the back of the store, rummaging round for something. Robert wasn't an expert on women, but he began to suspect that she might be annoyed. Or was it upset?
Eventually, after a few minutes, she came up to the counter to pay. She had put on a pair of the station's cheaply made sun-glasses and was holding another in her hand, rather incongruously for the time of night. A fellow vampire, Robert thought. At the very least hardly her usual speed.
He scanned the first pair of glasses, then according to the great corporate script had to say, "Sorry, miss, I'll need the other pair."
She hesitated for a second, "Just ring the other one up twice."
He nearly did, but then he found himself saying, as per the rules, "I'm afraid that they're different items. That one had blue on the arms, while the other has red. We have to put them through separately."
