HEATHER IN WHITE TRASH LAND

My body reacted to the medicine like crack. I was all shaky and out of it, and gripped my mouse like it was the "oh shit" handle in an out-of-control car. It was not good. I survived through the first half of my day, but then came lunch. I've been in North Carolina for almost two and a half months now and have my license, but no license plate or registration for the state. I decided to take care of this at lunch today. I know now to make sure I am not on any form of medication, before venturing into the pits of Thomasville for my tags.

I arrived at the strip mall and walked into the door of the licensing department. Southern Rock blared from hidden speakers and girls in sweatshirts cackled at each other at some joke I had just missed. I got in line and had two people in front of me. The first lady moved through quickly, but stayed to chat with the girl at the counter. Counter lady began waving and calling to the lady in front of me that her window was open. However, the loud music drowned her out, and it looked as if counter lady was rampantly waving a stinky fart away from herself. Knowing this was not the case, since her nose was not wrinkled up, I let the woman in front of me know that she could move up, but she ignored me. I don't know if the music was too loud, or my ears were too plugged up, but I apparently wasn't speaking loud enough.

"Ma'am!" I bellowed. "She's waving you up there!" She looked at me odd, then noticed the waving and finally moved ahead.

I started reading the plethora of vanity plates for sale for $5. North Carolina doesn't require front plates, and I see a lot of vehicles with vanity plates here. There was stuff about UNCG, loving North Carolina, being happy to call North Carolina home, and then it got scary. There were scriptures, plates stating "In GOD we trust", Jesus stuff, and one reading "A family that prays together, stays together." I was freaking out and noticed I had backed up against the wall in fear. What was this shit? The state contracts these offices. Where is the whole separation of church and state? I became angry and scared all at the same time, and then I saw it...a Confederate flag vanity plate. Okay, that's it! I was really pissed. I was tempted to ask if they could make me one that says, "You lost the war, deal with it."

My cold medicine-induced trip was not helping this. Lynyrd Skynyrd started rocking out to "Sweet Home Alabama" and the Confederate flag seemed to breathe to the beat. I stared, mouth gaping open, at the vanity plate that had it's own theme music playing along.

"Ma'am! I can help you!"

I went up to the counter and explained I was from out-of-state and needed to change my plates. The man at the next window started sobbing. I looked over shocked, and heard him crying about his wife to the uncomfortable lady at the next counter. She'd apparently had two strokes and now he had to take care of her and things like registration renewals. His crying was actually drowning out the music, which was kind of nice, but then I noticed the woman helping me was mouthing something I couldn't understand.

"What?" I yelled.

"WHAT'S YOUR MILEAGE?" she shouted back.

Then the man to my right started bellowing to his lady at the counter, "Hey sweetheart! How's Frank?"

Fuck! I can't hear anything. I saw my counter lady mouthing again. "What?"

She repeated herself and rolled her eyes, very obviously annoyed with me at this point. This continued on the entire time. I am deaf with what can only be snot in my ears, the man to my left is sobbing, the man to my right is probably drunk or just biker happy, a new song that I couldn't identify is blaring on the speakers, and Jesus plates are surrounding me. I wanted to run to the sobbing man and cry with him.

After being raped by sales tax on my out-of-state vehicle, I stumbled out of there grateful for the sound of cars on the street. It sounded so quiet, so peaceful.

I made it back to work and through the rest of my day with a pile of boogie rags in my garbage, and my carpal tunnel acting up from gripping the mouse tightly, to help balance myself. I went to my mom's for dinner. Following her to her house, I was amazed that she wasn't swerving at the shadow people running across the road like I was. I was wondering if driving drunk wasn't safer than driving on cold medicine. After dinner, I took off feeling that I was fading fast. Driving away, I realized I needed gas sometime soon and was dying for water. I stopped at the lone gas station by the freeway entrance, and set the gas pump to fill up without me. I went inside and fought with a bottle of water that refused to leave it's home, then scuffled up to the counter to pay. I hadn't been gone that long, but it was apparently too long. As I rounded my car I heard a strange noise like water running. Then I saw it. I had my own white trash fountain of gasoline pouring out of my car. A huge puddle of gasoline surrounded the back of my car and was traveling around to the other side of the tanks. Gasoline was shooting up in the air from the tank.

"FUCK!" I ran and stuck my hand into the fountain and unlatched the handle and hung up the pump. I had gasoline all over my hands and shoes. I think I may have even gotten some in my hair. I had nearly $30-worth of gasoline in my car and spread all over the concrete. I'd had just barely under a 1/4 tank when I stopped and knew that at least $10 of that gas was laying on the ground.

Running inside it dawned on me that everyone in there was smoking. Yes, I know it's strange, but it's common in this area for people to be smoking inside gas stations, particularly in the smaller towns. What if I catch on fire? What if that man sitting right by the door is too close to me, and I go up in flames? Would anybody put me out, or would they grab marshmallows from the aisle by the motor oil and toast them while they watched the Democrat burn? I mean, hell, there aren't many of us here and I think they'd like to rid the county of them. It's a very valid concern. I decide to run past the guy, and avoid his cigarette and make sure not to fart.

"The auto shut-off didn't go off!" I huffed to the lady at the register. Without even looking up from filing her nails, she shouts, "Ted! Throw some hufflepuff down on pump 3!" Of course she didn't say "hufflepuff," but it sounded like it. I asked for some paper towels to wipe down with. Still without looking up, she reaches over and hands me some blue paper towels and I run outside. I sprayed my hands down with water from my water bottle, then sprayed some on my car.

I got in the car, now reeking of gasoline and called my mom.

"Mom, these might be my last words to you."

"Heather, don't say that!"

"No, seriously! If someone throws a cigarette out the window on my way home I might blow up." I then proceeded to fill her in on my homemade white trash fountain. She laughed and asked if I remembered how our old Toyota would leak gas? Instantly I remembered the days of her driving that piece-of-shit. She'd start up the car, look back at us and say, "Okay kids, pray that no one tosses their cigarette out their window or we're going up in flames!"

I told her I remembered. She said she'd learned back around the time of the gas leak in our car, that it would basically take throwing a cigarette into a puddle of gasoline. I reminded her I'd just been standing in one and had thrown my hand in a fountain of gasoline. She assured me I'd be fine.

The entire ride home I shook in fear of flying cigarettes, grateful I'd decided to quit smoking that morning and quietly thanked the burning nicotine patch on my back for prohibiting me from lighting up in my car and setting myself on fire. Still full of cold medicine delusions, I floored it past every car I encountered on the freeway to ensure that just in case they DID throw a cigarette out the window, I would fly past them before the butt could hit my gasoline-soaked vehicle.

Almost home, I sat at a traffic light. A semi came up from behind me and blasted it's horn. I screamed and whipped around to the gas-tank side of the car, sure they were warning me I was ablaze. I pictured I'd been flying down the road with flames shooting off the rear end of my car. In turning back, I saw nothing but darkness and just an asshole truck driver whose Tourettes had apparently flared up on his horn at that moment.

Shaking, I settled back in feeling faint from the fumes in my car. I rolled down the window, but the outside of my car reeked of gas as well. I was going to die. This had to be the equivalent of taking pills and sitting in a closed garage with the car running. The cops would find my lifeless body at the traffic light, semi-man still honking at me. They'd look at each other and announce it a suicide. "I'm not sure how she did it, but she's full of acetaminophen and you can smell the fumes a mile away. Maybe she lived in one of them near houses and when she passed out, she stepped on the gas, rolled through her garage door and ended up here."

That must surely be it.