The Idiot
The Gas-N-Go off Route 57 wasn’t so much of a destination as a necessity. Passing through Americana fields of nothingness, the stretch between the southern border of Illinois and the forested hills of Western Tennessee offered some of the most desolate stretches of interstate in the country. Gas stations and diners were few and far between. They were the kind of spots that you only stopped at if it was necessary and made certain not to linger for longer than required.
Yet, the remoteness never bothered Clancy. In fact, he reveled in the simplicity of providing sugary energy drinks, beef jerky, and cigarettes to passing strangers from behind the counter. In between his crossword puzzles, he’d try to put together stories in his head of the customers that strolled into the lot. There was the philandering husband on a road trip with his sidepiece at pump #4, a group of hungover sorority sisters with fake IDs at pump #7, and a man on the run at pump #3. Clancy knew better than most – everyone had a story.
He was plenty friendly to those who came into the convenience store, always happy to offer directions or help to those seeking it. On weekdays, he liked to work the night shift from 5pm to 5am. Surrounded only by the sounds of the occasional passing car or truck, and the one or two customers who inevitably needed a midnight top-off during their road trip, Clancy enjoyed the silence of his booth. He’d do his puzzles, listen to music, catch up on reading, etc. He always kept a stash of old books beneath the register and would consume them religiously. Whenever he finished a shelf of books, he’d simply walk out towards the mobile trailer he kept parked in the back and replenish his stash with one of the dozen troughs of old leather-bound books that reached the ceiling of his tiny trailer.
He was nearly halfway through his latest book when a cheery man and his wife entered to stock up on snacks.
“Oop hey there, sorry to bother ya, sir. Y’all got Gatorade?”
“Aisle 2,” Clancy replied, barely looking up from his book.
They returned with a pile of miscellaneous snacks and drinks. Clancy sighed as he placed the book down to ring them up. The wife couldn’t help but notice the intricate carvings on the leather bindings.
“That’s some book, mister. Looks like a work of art! Who is Fee-eye-door Dose-stev-ski?”
“Fyodor Dostoevsky,” Clancy corrected her as he placed their items in a bag.
“He any good?” she asked, feigning friendliness.
Clancy nodded.
“One of the best. That’ll be $32.50.”
The woman smiled and suggestively placed her hand on top of Clancy’s.
“Maybe I’ll have to check him out.”
Still distracted by the young wife’s tender touch, Clancy barely heard the click from the lock on the front door or the cocking back of the pistol now being pointed three feet from his head. The facade of the husband’s cheery disposition immediately fell away as he waved the gun in Clancy’s face.
“Hands. On the counter. Do it now. No funny business.”
Seemingly unfazed, Clancy placed his hands on the counter and watched as the wife ran up and down the aisles, tossing aside bags of chips and bottles of antifreeze in search of something.
“Babe, it’s not here. I don’t see it!”
“Well look harder babe! We don’t have all day!”
“What the fuck do you think I’m doing?”
Clancy just sighed and shook his head. They get dumber and dumber every year… Annoyed by his apparent lack of fear, the husband walked around the counter and grabbed Clancy by the shirt collar.
“Looking pretty calm back there tough guy.”
“Let’s just get this over with.”
The husband’s eyes narrowed as Clancy opened up the cash register. “There’s about $550 in there and another $2,000 in the safe.” The husband looked unsettled and steadied his raised arm holding the gun. Clancy just rolled his eyes.
“This is the part where you say, ‘That’s not what we came here for.”
The husband looked nervously at his wife who stopped rummaging through shelves. They both looked confused and shrug to one another from across the store. The husband finally grabs Clancy by the collar and presses the barrel of the gun into his head.
“You know what we’re looking for?”
Clancy nodded and stared unblinking into their eyes.
“You think you’re the first two idiots to track me down in hopes of finding something that doesn’t exist?”
“But-but we know who you are!” cried the wife.
“Then you know I don’t have what you’re looking for. Take the cash and be on your way before you kids hurt yourselves.”
But the apathetic response set the Husband into a rage. He whips Clancy across the face with the butt of the gun, sending a spurt of blood from Clancy’s mouth onto the glossy tiled floor. He tried to rest his head on his knee before being yanked up by his hair.
“No more games tough guy. We’re not assholes you can buy off with a couple thousand bucks.”
The husband grabbed the leather book from the counter and held it up to the light. He smiled as he read the title.
“The Idiot –– what a fitting title.”
Clancy laughed. “You have no idea.”
The husband SMACKED the heavy book across Clancy’s face sending a throbbing pain through his entire body. The husband placed the thick book on Clancy’s chest and pulled back the hammer of the pistol, whose nozzle was pressed against the leather cover.
“Last chance old man. Tell us where it is.”
Clancy winced as the man pressed the nozzle deeper into the leather book cover.
“This unfortunate situation aside, the book is very old and very rare. Please don’t mess with the–” BANG! The shot rang out and startled everyone, even the husband whose pistol trembled in front of the smoldering leather cover with a hole in it. Clancy gasped and struggled for air as his fingers brushed against the bullet hole.
“Holy shit babe, what the fuck! Is he dead??”
“I-I didn’t mean to!”
“Well, what the hell are we supposed to do now?”
“I DON’T KNOW- JUST GIVE ME A SECOND!”
Before the husband could turn around to face the wife, his legs flew out from under him. In a spry display of muscle memory, Clancy moved swiftly, methodically dealing blow after blow with expert precision. He drove his fist into the husband’s solar plexus before swinging the heavy, leather-bound bookend into the man’s groin, shoulder, and throat. The husband fell to his knees, dropping the pistol and clasping his throat with widened eyes, gasping for air. The wife moved to intervene but was stopped in her tracks as Clancy raised the gun in her direction.
“That’s far enough little lady.”
The husband writhed in pain on the ground, his face turning purple. Clancy knelt down to him and began binding his hands in duct tape.
“It’s a collapsed trachea. You’ve got about 4.5 minutes so lets hope the ambulance doesn’t hit traffic.”
Clancy glanced down at the book. Its leather cover was torn and covered in blood. He picked it up and held it up to the husband’s bulging eyes.
“Ah dammit. I told you not to mess with my book.”
Clancy shook his head and sauntered over to the phone behind the register.
“You know what its about?” He asked tapping the cover. The husband offered no response other than a wheeze.
“That’s ok. How about you sweetie, any guesses?”
The woman shook her head in fear. Clancy sighed and dialed in a series of numbers.
“Oddly enough, it’s about not judging a book by its cover. Ironic right?”
Clancy spoke calmly into the receiver.
“Station Episilon. Verification Whiskey-Tango-1-4-7… Yes. Station secure. Have a 1048. Two unsubs. One female. One male. Need local PD and medevac team… No, I’m alright, just a scratch…copy that.”
With that, Clancy sat back down in his chair behind the register and sighed. He opened the book to find the bullet still lodged between the pages and chuckled.
“I suppose I’m one lucky idiot.”