"Hey, Drak." Before I have a chance to respond, Jeremy whizzes past me on his skateboard.

"It's Drake," I mutter after he's already left me in the dust. My words are monotone and half-assed.

What's the use in trying?

No matter how many times I correct him, he still refuses to use my proper name. Maybe he can't help it. One too many hits on a bong must have killed those precious few neurons knocking around the inside of his sixteen-year-old brain. The poor kid probably doesn't have the capacity to understand the difference between a short and long vowel.

Or perhaps it has simply become a term of endearment. Despite his lack of brain cells, he's never come off as an asshole--just completely clueless.

Jeremy's wheeled-contraption is decorated with flaming skulls and colorful pot leaves. The number of decals makes me wonder if a toddler armed with a sticker book got to it. Unashamed of his toyish mode of transportation, he glides with ease along Arizona's dry cactus fields.

His long golden ponytail peeks out from underneath a beanie and flies behind him like the tail of a kite. A baggy hoodie is tied around his waist. He's still in his uniform shirt, which is the only piece of professional attire in his entire wardrobe.

It is the same atrocious yellow Polo that I am also wearing.

Before I continue towards our shared workplace on foot, I watch the young man ride off into the sunset. He's got the wind at his back and his whole future ahead of him. I can only hope that he is on his way home to study--but I know that is unlikely. His plans for tonight probably involve hotboxing his closet and listening to a Pink Floyd soundtrack.

As long as he avoids the hard drugs, he'll have a shot at going to college next year. Maybe he'll get the hell out of dodge and leave this town far behind him.

Meanwhile, I turn to face my future: a rinky-dink gas station by the name of Mags' Mini-Mart. The alcohol is cheap, and the food is mediocre at best. To think I earned a Master's degree in biochemistry just to become the cashier of a shitty rest stop at the age of twenty-five.

Flashing lotto and beer ads beckon to me through the windows. As the sun disappears completely below the horizon, the neon lights glow brighter. They emanate a homey vibe, despite their tackiness. Being the only speck of civilization in this entire wasteland, Mags' store is an oasis for travelers. It is the last stop before Phoenix, which is about two hours away from Penumbra. 

As the highest paid "senior" employee at Mags' Mini-Mart, I can't grumble about a quiet, simple, predictable night job in a dead town. In fact, I should count myself lucky to have an easy graveyard shift. I'd die--literally die--if I had to work during the day.

My narrow list of career options, among many other aspects of life, is just another result of my rare skin condition: xeroderma pigmentosum. The fancy scientific term simply means that I have an extreme sensitivity to the sun's ultraviolet rays. I can handle small doses of daylight--just as long as I wear plenty of sunblock. But, if I stood outside for a solid hour in the blazing Arizona sun, I'd burn to a crisp.

For that reason, I sleep during the day, wake up in the evening, and slather on three layers of SPF 100 before I walk outside in the waning sunlight. I've been living with this disease for so long that I am accustomed to a nocturnal lifestyle. The noxious smell of gasoline, the buzzing of the slushy maker, the stillness of an empty desert--it's all part of my routine.

Wind chimes tinkle as I step through the door, and I find the one and only Mags sitting behind the register.

"Evenin', Drake," she greets me with a raspy Texas drawl. Deep lines are etched into her face--the result of many years spent soaking up the southern sun. Her bleached hair, which is almost white, hangs over her bony shoulders in loose curls.

There isn't anyone she doesn't know in this town, and unless you're a total stranger, then you know Mags. Despite her prickly cactus exterior, she's actually quite friendly... just stay off of her shit list.

"She's all yers' now," she says, reaching for her purse.

Before she leaves, the first customer of the night pulls into the lot. I've learned to recognize the rumble of his truck and the clink of his metal spurs. He parks his tractor-trailer by the diesel pump and walks through the door. Like always, he is dressed in a grungy shirt, leather vest, and jeans.

"Hey, Abe." Mags waves to him as they cross paths in front of the door.

"Hey, Maggy," he replies, tipping his cowboy hat to her out of respect.

Almost every night, Abraham shows up with a new haul in the back of his rig. He does odd jobs for Mags on the side, but what he transports and to where for his primary work, I do not know. I've never asked. He doesn't seem like the type who welcomes a lot of questions.

After he places a bag of pork rinds, bottle of root beer, and candy bar onto the counter, I ring up his snacks without exchanging many words. "That'll be $9.54."

Abe takes out a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and drops it by the register. "Keep the change," he says, reaching for his items.

"Oh, uh, thanks," I answer, trying not to make eye contact for too long.

Before walking outside, he turns back to look at me once more. "Stay outta trouble, kid." His baritone voice rumbles the store.

I guess he tries to look out for me the same way Mags does. If my father was still around, I wonder if he'd do the same. But it's hard to say. I've never met him.

Growing up without a dad earned me sympathy from a lot of people. I hate dwelling on it, but I appreciate the occasional hand up.

Sifting through old memories, I fiddle with the nametag on my shirt. It contains the origin of my nickname.

Right before Jeremy came in for his first day of training, I lost the original tag. There was a replacement in the back, but we didn't have enough letter stickers to go around. I was satisfied with using "DRAK" until we could order more.

It was a mistake.

"DRAK" was solidified in Jeremy's mind the moment he shook my hand. Drawing the "E" with a Sharpie marker didn't help. And so began our odd acquaintance.

I've never been much of a role model, but I try my best to keep the kid on track by encouraging him to finish school. Once in a while, he keeps me company on a night shift, and in between our random conversations, I attempt to convince him to straighten up without sounding like I'm lecturing him.

"Hey, don't give up now. College is way more fun than high school."

My lame-ass pep talks make me sound like a cringey guidance counselor. Without a father to sit me down for those serious heart-to-hearts when I was that age, I have no way to gauge my effectiveness. I hate not knowing if I am doing it right.

Still pondering, I watch Abe pull away in his truck, and for the next thirty minutes, total silence takes over, aside from the humming air conditioner. I wait for the next vehicle to pull in, and like clockwork, I see headlights flash on and off through the windows.

Sitting inside of a red PT Cruiser is the only true ray of sunshine that exists in my life.

My girlfriend, Wilma, waves to me with a brilliant smile. Before walking outside to greet her, I take a moment to catch my breath. We've been together for over three years, but every time I see her, she still knocks the wind out of me.

Wondering if I haven't spotted her yet, she sticks her head out of the car window. "Drake?" she calls, her voice sounding slightly concerned.

God, she's gorgeous.

Wilma is too perfect in every way imaginable, but somehow, she keeps coming back to me. Amazed by this rare miracle, I walk straight into the parking lot, reach through the window, and press my lips against hers.

A hunger stirs within me.

Music Credit: Audio Expanse

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