In the Garden of the North American Martyrs
“Before long the constant effort and the lulling rhythm of the wipers made him drowsy, and he pulled into a gas station to throw some water in his face and buy coffee.
He was topping off the tank, listening to the invisible waves growl on the beach across the road, when a girl came out of the station and began to wash the windshield. She had streaked hair and wore knee-length, high-heeled boots over her blue jeans. Glen could not see her face clearly.
“Lousy morning for a drive,” she said, leaning over the hood. Her blue jeans had studs poking through in different patterns and when she moved they blinked in the light of the sputtering yellow tubes overhead. She threw the squeegee into a bucket and asked Glen what kind of mileage he got.
He tried to remember what Martin had told him. “Around twenty-five per,” he said.
She whistled and looked the car up and down as if she were thinking of buying it from him.
Glen held out Martin’s credit card but the girl laughed and said she didn’t work there.
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