Read Online The Night Gwen Stacy Died by Sarah Bruni - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Bruni
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looked
straight into the eye of the security camera.
“I don’t even know your real name,” said Sheila.
“Sure you do, Gwen,” he said quietly.
He looked at her queerly, smiled at her with his eyes, as if they two were in on something
wonderful, some unnamed thing she wanted.
“Point the gun at me,” said Sheila.
Peter Parker did as he was told.
FOR A LITTLE OVER TWO hours, Peter had been driving up and down the Coralville strip with a gun in the
glove compartment. It wasn’t even his glove compartment. It belonged to Yellow Cab
number ninety-seven, the taxi he drove most nights. Any one of the inebriated clients
he might pick up—and, working nights in a town bordering a college town, a good percentage
of his clientele was inebriated—could get curious in the front seat and find the gun
nestled between outdated city maps and his emergency stack of Dairy Queen napkins.
Peter removed the gun from the glove compartment while stopped at a red light; he
admired its petite muzzle and short black trigger, then he lay it down quietly on
the passenger seat. He didn’t know if it was loaded; he had been afraid to open it
up and find out. Better not to know, better to allow himself to be in awe of the certain
danger of it, to use this danger as backup, a motivation to walk into the gas station
and say what he had seen.
What he had seen was the girl, the gas station attendant who showed up in his dreams.
Often she appeared in her underwear. In these regular dreams, the girl’s underwear
was always white cotton with lace trim. She spoke French to him in these dreams, but
not much else happened, and anyway Peter didn’t understand French, so she could have
been saying anything—“Nice weather we’ve been having,” or “Can I borrow your car?”—the
stuff of everyday necessity. Still, these dreams were nice. They did nothing to upset
Peter.
He was on his way to the gas station now. Perhaps she would be expecting him, because
it was almost eight and he hadn’t yet been there. Peter pulled off onto the shoulder
of Highway 6, half a mile from the station. He picked up the gun from the passenger
seat.
The shotgun rides shotgun
. But it was a handgun, and he was hoping the girl would want to sit beside him.
He had been driving a cab for the past five years, but he had been coming in to visit
the girl when his shifts were slow only for the past month or so now. She was nice
to look at even if she sometimes acted like she didn’t want him around. The first
time he’d come into the station, the girl stared at his ID for maybe a full minute,
but she hadn’t said a word about it.
“Something wrong?” Peter had asked her.
The license he carried in his wallet was a fake he’d made some years ago on the occasion
of his twentieth birthday. But everyone called him Peter anyway, so it didn’t seem
to make much of a difference. Unless he had to sign his name for some tax or employment
purpose, this was the license he pulled from his wallet. His face was getting old
and familiar enough around town not to be asked for identification much, so there
seemed to be little reason for an adolescent gas station attendant to make him feel
self-conscious about it. “Is there a problem?” Peter repeated.
“Not unless there’s something I’m missing,” the girl said, in a way that made it seem
as if he were the one with the staring problem.
The next time he went in to buy cigarettes, Peter pulled off the cellophane and knocked
one out from the pack. “Do you mind?” he asked, raising the freed cigarette halfway
to his mouth.
“You’re not allowed to smoke in here, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. He
started to make his way toward the door when he heard her say, “Unless you’ve got
one for me?”
Peter turned to face the girl, regarding the entire wall of cigarettes behind her,
in every package and variety imaginable—hard
straight into the eye of the security camera.
“I don’t even know your real name,” said Sheila.
“Sure you do, Gwen,” he said quietly.
He looked at her queerly, smiled at her with his eyes, as if they two were in on something
wonderful, some unnamed thing she wanted.
“Point the gun at me,” said Sheila.
Peter Parker did as he was told.
FOR A LITTLE OVER TWO hours, Peter had been driving up and down the Coralville strip with a gun in the
glove compartment. It wasn’t even his glove compartment. It belonged to Yellow Cab
number ninety-seven, the taxi he drove most nights. Any one of the inebriated clients
he might pick up—and, working nights in a town bordering a college town, a good percentage
of his clientele was inebriated—could get curious in the front seat and find the gun
nestled between outdated city maps and his emergency stack of Dairy Queen napkins.
Peter removed the gun from the glove compartment while stopped at a red light; he
admired its petite muzzle and short black trigger, then he lay it down quietly on
the passenger seat. He didn’t know if it was loaded; he had been afraid to open it
up and find out. Better not to know, better to allow himself to be in awe of the certain
danger of it, to use this danger as backup, a motivation to walk into the gas station
and say what he had seen.
What he had seen was the girl, the gas station attendant who showed up in his dreams.
Often she appeared in her underwear. In these regular dreams, the girl’s underwear
was always white cotton with lace trim. She spoke French to him in these dreams, but
not much else happened, and anyway Peter didn’t understand French, so she could have
been saying anything—“Nice weather we’ve been having,” or “Can I borrow your car?”—the
stuff of everyday necessity. Still, these dreams were nice. They did nothing to upset
Peter.
He was on his way to the gas station now. Perhaps she would be expecting him, because
it was almost eight and he hadn’t yet been there. Peter pulled off onto the shoulder
of Highway 6, half a mile from the station. He picked up the gun from the passenger
seat.
The shotgun rides shotgun
. But it was a handgun, and he was hoping the girl would want to sit beside him.
He had been driving a cab for the past five years, but he had been coming in to visit
the girl when his shifts were slow only for the past month or so now. She was nice
to look at even if she sometimes acted like she didn’t want him around. The first
time he’d come into the station, the girl stared at his ID for maybe a full minute,
but she hadn’t said a word about it.
“Something wrong?” Peter had asked her.
The license he carried in his wallet was a fake he’d made some years ago on the occasion
of his twentieth birthday. But everyone called him Peter anyway, so it didn’t seem
to make much of a difference. Unless he had to sign his name for some tax or employment
purpose, this was the license he pulled from his wallet. His face was getting old
and familiar enough around town not to be asked for identification much, so there
seemed to be little reason for an adolescent gas station attendant to make him feel
self-conscious about it. “Is there a problem?” Peter repeated.
“Not unless there’s something I’m missing,” the girl said, in a way that made it seem
as if he were the one with the staring problem.
The next time he went in to buy cigarettes, Peter pulled off the cellophane and knocked
one out from the pack. “Do you mind?” he asked, raising the freed cigarette halfway
to his mouth.
“You’re not allowed to smoke in here, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. He
started to make his way toward the door when he heard her say, “Unless you’ve got
one for me?”
Peter turned to face the girl, regarding the entire wall of cigarettes behind her,
in every package and variety imaginable—hard
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