The Water Tower Rest Area

If you’re receiving this, you previously subscribed to my writing on Substack. I’m on Ghost now. I also went fully anonymous on Substack. A few friends, welcome to the other side of me. It's Hawtorn V. Rabot, HVR, though a few of you know my real name.

The largest inflatable basketball on a water tower. It’s the center of town. The only stop for hours across an endless nothingness. There aren’t even squirrels.

It just so happens it’s between the nearest city and the nearest amusement park. A “roadside attraction” in the only town for hours? Sure. Tourism. Call it that.

I’m in the middle of my shift doing handyman work at the rest stop. I always have my tool belt. I’m tightening the clamps when another bus comes. The kids get out, and they run into the rest stop.

I guess I’ll have to do more work again. Earlier, those brats managed to undo my efforts. Ingrates. If I wasn’t a good man…

“Yes, child, the vending machine is inside.”

“I believe they have Snickers.”

“I’m not sure if it’s Pepsi or Coke.”

I fake my smile and reach for my drill and bits.

My pocket buzzes. The boss letting me know what else I need to do for the job. Independent contractor. No benefits. All on me.

Asshole.

The roadside attraction is across the two-lane road from the rest stop, but it has no parking lot. Their ridiculous selfies.

I’m supposed to be a handyman, yet most of my day is telling people they can’t park by the inflatable basketball water tower. I’m not customer service.

I watch who comes by. The old. The young. The groups. The men. The women. The kids.

I take a break and walk outside. It’s Pepsi. I take a sip. Glance at my phone. It’s about that time.

A Honda pulls up. Out comes a man in half a suit and half casual. He couldn’t make up his mind. A woman, too. She looks like she regrets riding with him. She could do better. I love that red dress.

I can make out faint arguing. He runs inside. She stops by the front. Only a few steps away. On her phone. I can’t help it. I sneak a peek.

“Is there WiFi here?” she turns and asks.

“It goes in and out,” I reply. “Is it working for you now?”

She hits buttons on her phone. “I guess, but I have unlimited data.”

Then why did she ask? I roll my eyes. I take another swig of my Pepsi.

“Is it worth getting the selfie?” she asks. Of course it’s not. What kind of joke question is that?

“Of course it is,” I reply, but this smile is real.

She leans in. “I should wait for —”

“You know, you can go get the selfies yourself first, and I can let him know.”

She smiles back. “Great idea.” She starts the walk across the street.

I turn and walk back into the rest area. By my count, there are four people inside. I watch as three people finish up and walk out. I lock the door.

I go into the men’s room and move towards the stall. I kick the door open. The man is inside with powder on his nose.

“Eric, you shoulda paid up,” I state as I take my pistol and silencer out of my tool belt. He’s frozen.

“Wait! No! Tell them I just need more –”

Two muffled cracks.

He’s down.

Least he didn’t land on the toilet and make this messier.

I check his pulse, take a pic, and send it to the boss.

I’m an independent contractor.

The other half of the crypto hits my wallet.

I reach into the ceiling tiles, adjust them, and grab my bag. I change into mouse ears, a fanny pack, and a polo shirt tucked into athletic shorts. I keep the work gloves (like I always do) to grab his keys.

I walk out the back way. I didn’t tell her it’s almost noon, when the influencers make a line for the water tower. I put a sticky note on the car. “Babe, sorry, but I met someone. Here are the keys.” I put the keys on the windshield with it.

I go to the work truck in the employee parking lot. Poor Dale. I step into the Volvo parked beside it.

I hit the gas, not too hard, not too soft. I drive into the distance.

After an hour, I stop in the middle of nowhere. A few trees. My abandoned Ford with the shirt in the window. I walk behind the trees and change into a suit.

I leave the Volvo, and I take the Ford to the city.

My flight is waiting, and I’m not paid hourly.

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This piece was written in response to the prompt by Labyrinthia Mythweaver.

One of my favorite pieces of liminal Americana is the roadside attraction.

Some stand beside forgotten highways, painted in faded colors, promising mystery, miracles, giants, ghosts, gravity that runs backwards, or the world's largest something.

Roadside attractions occupy a strange space between folklore and tourism. They are America's modern fairy tales, places built to make travelers stop, wonder, laugh, or believe.

This week, write about a mystery spot, a tourist trap, an abandoned attraction, a giant statue, a forgotten roadside oddity, or invent one entirely. Tell us the story behind it. Is it merely kitsch... or is there something stranger waiting just off the highway?