By Jen Ippensen
When she gets off work, Charlie will stop for gas at the Quick Shop on 13th, not her usual filling station but one she passes twice a day, every day, once on her way to the plant and again on the way home. She could probably make the trip another day, maybe two. But today, she will feel as if she’s running on empty. The banana bread and lemon muffins her friends baked to commemorate her thirty years of service will have done nothing to fuel her.
When she pulls alongside the pump, she will think, briefly, about Hank, anticipate his disapproving look. If she waited until the weekend, he could get her eleven cents off per gallon with the Hy-Vee rewards card in his wallet. Instead, Charlie listens for the automatic shutoff, pumps the handle two, even three times, sure to fill the tank until it can’t hold one more drop.
When the pump screen asks if she wants a receipt, without thinking, she will touch Yes only to lift the thin sheet of paper, tear it against the metal teeth of the receipt printer, then noticing it in her hand, drop it in the trash can next to the pump before opening the driver’s side door and getting behind the wheel. She will turn the stereo down, click it off, back on, off, on.
When she pulls out of the parking lot, she will hit the green light at the corner of 13th and High. Rather than turning left on 26th and heading toward paint-chipped slat boards and Hank in his recliner, waiting for her to make dinner, Charlie will accelerate through the intersection and head out of town. On the highway, she will reach top speed and crack the window to feel the air all around her.
This time, when she crosses the state line, she will sit a little taller, breathe a little deeper. She will turn the radio dial until the static fades and a new station comes in strong and clear.
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Jen Ippensen (she/her) lives and writes in Nebraska. She holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Nebraska. You can find her at www.jenippensen.com or on Twitter (X) @jippensen.