Abhay's Bhay

A crinkling sound echoes in the night. Underneath a half-cloudy, half-starry sky lies an empty highway. The cool night air carries a faint smell of gasoline and asphalt. Flashing neon signs show gas prices, inviting passing cars to stop. It’s a small gas station with eight pumps next to a small, enclosed kiosk. Outside the kiosk, a boy fiddles with garbage bins.

Krish hauls the full bin bag out, ties it, and lines the bin with a fresh bag. Seven more bins to go. Slowly but surely, he walks from bin to bin, repeating the ritual. The rustle of plastic and the occasional clink of glass bottles are the only sounds in the stillness. Once done, he hauls all the full bags to the back and throws them in the big bin. He proceeds toward the kiosk, takes a hit of his vape, tasting the sweet, artificial flavor, and unlocks the door. The click of the lock echoes in the quiet night as he steps inside, locking it behind him. His eyes seek the clock; it’s the unholy hour of 2 am. A big sigh escapes his lips as he claps his hands together and nods to himself. Six more hours in his shift. He turns his music on and sits down, browsing his phone, the glow of the screen illuminating his face.

Krish thinks he’s found the perfect job. It pays enough to get by and doesn’t require much effort. Most of the time, his mind is free to wander. He likes the solitude, the way the world feels paused in these early hours. As he scrolls through social media, a car pulls up to one of the pumps, its headlights cutting through the darkness. He pauses his music and stands up, ready for customer service. A ding echoes as the door opens, and a guy walks in wearing cargo shorts, a tank top, and a head full of tattoos instead of hair.

“Give me two packs of Marlboro Reds and $40 on pump 3.”

“That’ll be $74.50.”

“Geez, you guys charge way too much,” he mutters, fishing for money in his pockets. Krish catches a whiff of cigarette smoke and sweat.

“Yeah, it’s unfortunate.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know it’s not your fault. What time do you finish your shift?” he asks, putting the cash on the counter.

“8 o’clock,” Krish responds, placing the change back on the counter.

“Damn, don’t you get sleepy?”

“Staying awake is part of the job.”

“Right on. All right, take care.” The man grabs his cigarettes and change, the door dinging again as he heads out.

That was the extent of most interactions at this job. Three months in, Krish feels comfortable with everything. He doesn’t do any paperwork—the manager takes care of that in the morning. He just shows up on time and transacts. He can live a life like this.

As the customer drives off, Krish plays his music again. He paces back and forth in the small area, bopping to the sounds, his fingers playing out the guitar riffs with the song. He hasn’t touched his own guitar in months. The calluses on his fingers have softened, a reminder of dreams put on hold.

Those were some crazy dreams we had.

He remembers the band he started with his friends in high school. He was the front vocalist and guitarist, with three of his buddies on piano, bass, and drums. Everyone was all in on the idea, committed to pursuing it as their future until it was time to pick a major for university after high school. No one showed the same enthusiasm anymore.

“My dad won’t let me take music,” one said. “My mom wouldn’t agree,” said another. “I need to pick something that guarantees income, Krish. I can’t,” said the third.

He understood, of course. It sucked to be the only one who did. His parents were supportive enough, but they too echoed the same concerns. He decided then to major in Finance. Music didn’t have to be his life. It didn’t matter to him—future was too far away.

Two cars pull in, their engines rumbling loudly. These cars look modified with accentuated hoods and tail spoilers. A couple of boys get out of the driver’s seats and head in. Krish pauses his music and stands up. The door dings as the two boys come in, talking loudly in a language he doesn’t recognize.

They approach the counter still talking when one of them turns to Krish and says, “Two packs of Backwoods.”

“May I see a piece of ID, please?”

“Why do you want to see an ID? You think we are kids?” says one of them, sneering.

“Just doing my job,” he says coolly.

The boys head back out while looking him up and down. Krish, unfazed, pretends he’s working as one of them returns shortly, while the other stays outside still yelling something in a language Krish doesn’t understand. He shows his ID. Krish sells the packs.

As the boy is leaving, he casually knocks down a few packs of chips and laughs on his way out the door. Krish lets out a big sigh, more disappointed than annoyed.

It’s just part of the job.

He cleans the mess, steps out, and takes another hit of his vape, the cool vapor mixing with the night air. Once back inside, he hits play on his music and begins air drumming, the rhythm offering a momentary escape from the night’s dullness.

His thoughts drift back to that Saturday four months ago, before he moved to the city, when he was still on his parents’ farm in his hometown. After the day’s chores, he had stood on top of the barn, playing his guitar for the cows, sheep, and hens. Hema, the neighbor’s daughter, joined the audience and cheered for him loudly. He loved it when people cheered him on. The breezy evening after a hot workday, capped by their shared joy of music, made that one of the most cherished evenings of his life. It was the same evening he had the ‘Talk’ with his parents about his future. Everything had moved much faster than he would’ve preferred after that.

Another ding rings. He pauses his music and stands up to see a girl around his age come in. She’s wearing a full-sleeve grey sweater, baggy cargo pants, and sports shoes. Her red hair falls in an elegant ponytail behind her, glasses covering her eyes. She stands in front of the fridge browsing.

Krish looks at the clock: 3:09 am. Why is she out so late at night by herself? It’s none of his business, of course. She pulls out a bottle of Smart Water and approaches the counter.

“Hello,” Krish greets, scanning the bottle.

“Hi, how are you?” the girl responds, taking the bottle after it’s scanned and starts drinking before she even pays.

“You know, can complain but choosing not to,” he says.

Her eyes bulge and she spit out the water, coughing profusely. Krish panics and rushes forward, trying to figure out how to help, offering her tissues.

Her coughing subsides slowly as she grabs her chest with one hand while accepting tissues with the other.

“I’m cough so sorry… cough Didn’t expect that cough – cough”

“That’s fine. I forgot how funny I can be,” he says, smiling.

She smiles back, gaining her composure. Her eyes fall towards the spill on the floor and widen.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up,” Krish reassures her.

“Oh, I feel so terrible.” She pulls out extra cash and places it on the counter.

“Don’t.” Krish waves his hand dismissively as he returns behind the counter and tenders the change.

“No, please keep the change,” she insists as she shuffles outward.

Not wanting to argue, he slips the change of coins into the tip jar where it clangs against the empty glass.

She looks back and smiles. “Have a good night.” She wanders out into the night.

You as well.

He returns to the back room to grab the mop bucket. It’s just part of the job. He mops up the mess from the floor and under the mats, his mind still thinking about the girl. Wonder if I’ll see her again. Wonder what kind of work she does. Wonder if she’ll go out with me. He finishes cleaning up. The clock says 3:25 am. A few more hours till home time. He puts the cleaning supplies away and sits back down, hitting play on his music.

She did smile back, though. Should’ve asked her out.

He lets out a big sigh, forcing her out of his mind.

He had always loved attention. As a child, he would put on impromptu concerts for his family, belting out tunes with a makeshift microphone. The applause and laughter fueled his dreams of becoming a rockstar, standing on a stage with thousands of fans cheering his name. But as he grew older, the harsh reality of failure began to chip away at his confidence. Each failed attempt at cracking into the basketball team, football team, and track team left a mark on his self-esteem. Every rejection felt like a spotlight turning off, one by one, until he was left in the dark.

He remembered the sting of not seeing his name on the team lists, the awkward consolation from friends and family who didn’t quite understand his need for validation. He felt like he was always one step behind, never quite good enough. The fear of failure grew stronger with each setback, making him hesitant to try anything new unless he was certain he would succeed.

Despite all this, he did manage to find a place in the school band, where he played the saxophone. It wasn’t the electric guitar, or the frontman position he dreamed of, but it was something. The band gave him a sense of belonging and a way to express himself, even if it was in the background. He loved the way the saxophone’s smooth, mellow tones could convey emotions he struggled to put into words. It was a small victory in a sea of defeats, but it was enough to keep his passion for music alive, even if just barely.

Lights flash through the window as multiple cars pull in. He pauses his music and gets ready for customer service again. One after the other, people come in a steady flow. In the middle of the commotion, someone asks for the bathroom key. As he tenders the last customer’s sale, his eyes fall on the clock. It says 4:30 am.

Time flew. He sits down on his chair and lays his head back for a moment. Just as he’s about to play his music again, he remembers the bathroom key wasn’t returned. He sits a moment longer, then grabs the master key and heads out back toward the bathroom after locking the kiosk.

He opens the bathroom door and almost throws up. Greeting him was the sight of someone’s mess on top of the seat. He closes the door, staying out and breathes in and out some fresh air.

How could someone reach the seat and miss the bowl?

He rests his hand against the door, leaning in with his body weight, face down, breathing hard.

It’s just part of the job. It’s just part of the job.

After what feels like an eternity, Krish unlocks the kiosk and puts the cleaning supplies away. He sits down and just stays there with his head hanging. His eyes fall on his hands, all red and scrubbed up. He looks up—5:07 am. He sits in silence, no music playing.

I guess no job is perfect. Not many jobs require you to clean a stranger’s poop, though.

The day breaks, dark skies replaced by a bright, cloudy sky. More cars pull in and out. He transacts mechanically, trying his hardest not to think about the shitty situation. The door dings, and a man comes in at 7:45 am, dressed in a nice grey suit with a crisp white shirt and aviators over his eyes.

“Can I get $50 of premium on pump 7 and a pack of blue Du Maurier, small, please?”

Krish moves robotically, fishes the cigarettes from the shelf behind him, and punches in the gas codes. The man takes his aviators off and asks, “Did you just start?”

“Finish in 15 minutes.”

“Nice. How long was your shift?”

“Ten hours.”

The man winces but has a knowing smile as he nods and pulls out his credit card. “Been there. It’s definitely hard. But things do get better,” he says with a genuine smile as he taps the card reader, grabs his smokes, and leaves without a receipt.

“Have a good day,” he says as he exits the door. Krish stands there, unable to form any words.

The next employee comes in to relieve Krish. He does not mention anything to her; he simply collects his stuff, changes his clothes, and heads out to the bus stop.

He needs sleep, yet his mind is too wired to rest.

If this man indeed used to work graveyard shifts at a gas station, what did he do that he doesn’t need to work here anymore?

He walks up to the bus stop.

Maybe this wasn’t a perfect job. He takes a hit of his vape. Maybe it isn’t too late to decide what he wants to do. He sees the bus coming down the road. Maybe he doesn’t need to spend his life like this.

He gets on the bus, takes a seat, puts his earphones in, and plays his music.

Maybe life has more to offer.