Baked Scribe Flashback : Flip
Gilroy looked up into his rear-view mirror as the reflection of the trooper’s lights caught his attention.
“Tail light’s out,” the trooper said as he nodded with his overcompensating Smokey the Bear hat and scribbled on the citation pad. He tore the page off and handed it over, his chicken scratches completely indecipherable, save for the $150 written at the bottom in clear, precise lettering.
Gilroy shook his head, feeling sure somehow, in the back of his mind that he had gone through this already, some sense of deja vu tugging at him. He watched the taillights of the trooper diminish into the night, and pulled back out onto the road. This trip felt like it had been going on forever and he was beginning to feel like he was on repeat, driving on into the night from now until eternity.
He needed a cigarette.
He needed it more than anything. The trip had already been stressful enough without this. And now, as he felt around on the passenger seat while keeping the car in his lane, a creeping realization came to him.
He had smoked the last one thirty miles ago. And he had passed up three different service stations where he could have purchased more. Now he was stuck in his car, hurtling through a darkened passage of overgrown trees on the barest patch of two lane he had ever seen. No source of tobacco in sight.
Then he saw the restaurant. Like a beacon in the night, shining warm light in all directions, it called to him. The diner was straight out of a painted rendition of classic Americana. He was surprised that he didn’t spot men in fedoras and blue, fatigued suits lined up at the counter.
There was, however, a vending machine, standing in portrait, under lights, with the logo of his brand calling out to him. The car wheels threw up dirt and gravel as he turned sharply into the lot. He kicked open the door and ran up to the machine, pawing into his pockets for loose change. It had been ages since he had last seen a cigarette vending machine. The product in here had likely long since gone beyond stale, but it was better than nothing.
He soon realized the problem, when he saw that the coin slot was of a size for no coin that he had ever seen before, larger even than the old silver dollars his grandfather used to give him on Easter Sundays. He had cash, but it looked like the machine wasn’t set up for paper currency. He looked inside for a waitress or cook or anyone to help, but saw no one.
When he moved his foot, the glint from the coin on the ground caught his attention and he marveled at how he hadn’t seen it sooner. It was the size of a small pancake. The edges were course and rough, but the finish on the coin itself was of a high sheen, and it reflected light brilliantly up at him. There wasn’t the usual presidential profile on the coin, but rather, an ornate etching of what looked like a lion, or some other mythological mixture of everyday creatures.
He bent down and plucked it up, turning it over in his hand, mesmerized by the reflected brilliance. He held it up to the slot in the machine to compare the size before sliding it slowly through.
Thunder crashed in one head-splitting strike, and the world unhinged, as if at the end of a long night of alcoholic excess. He closed his eyes, and his stomach clenched at the smell of something burning. The world around him sped up, tipping towards unbearable, until it gradually began to slow, and stopped altogether.
He found himself, again behind the wheel of his car. There was an odd buzzing sound in his ears and he swatted at something in the air as the fleeting memory of what had just happened faded away into the darkness of his subconscious.
Gilroy looked up into his rear-view mirror as the reflection of the trooper’s lights caught his attention.
