Chapter Text
When sleeping at night, it’s almost impossible to not dream of things you’d rather ignore. Like old friends, or thunder. Or brothers.
This was a well-known fact to Stanley Pines, one he was reminded of when he slammed his head on the roof of his car, waking up from a seven hour nap.
As he sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, head sore from sitting up too fast, he looked out the window. Nothing but gray sky and rain- that might explain why he’d been passed out for so long- rain usually kept people under right? Pressure change or something. Squinting and trying to look through the muggy weather, he could vaguely see the lights of traffic in the distance, cars honking like the noise would do anything to clear the road.
Popping his knuckles, Stanley leaned into the back of the carseat, glaring at the sky as if his annoyance might change the storm clouds accumulating in the sky. His head stinging, he tried to think back to his dream.
Stan thought it was strange- a dream that takes place in a childhood home should be a comforting one, right? Even the dream he’d just had didn’t have anything nightmarish happening in it- just a memory. Well, it had stopped being a memory near the end there, but it still left a bad mood and a worse headache.
He’d been in his childhood room, trying to puzzle through a textbook. Probably algebra, with the level of annoyance it had been presumably causing him.
Stanford was sitting in his own bed next to Stanley, reading one of the fantasy books he’d been obsessed with as a kid. Just sitting, no talking. Near the end though, his brother had turned to him, eyes strangely focused. Ford never looked people in the face, so that in itself had been off putting enough. Then he’d started talking in a voice that sounded like him, but wasn’t something Stan ever recalled him saying.
“You should probably wake up.”
Eugh. Creepy.
Stan didn’t dream often, and when he did he could usually wake up fairly quickly before going back to sleep. But as a rule, he drew the line at weird nightmares.
Leaning up out of his seat and looking over the one in front of him, he tried to get a glimpse of the clock. What time was it? It was nice out when he’d fallen asleep, so it had to be at least a few hours later. The clock read 12:42, so he had around twenty minutes before he needed to be somewhere. The previous week he’d made plans with a guy (who he’d already forgotten the name of) at a bar further down town.
A job offer.
Stan hadn’t really been interested at the time, but after 47 out of the 50 vacuums he’d purchased had broken down, he thought it might be a good idea to hear the guy out. He’d said he was selling medicine. Or at least that was what the business card said. Knowing the sort of people that tended to hang around bars to offer jobs though, there was a good chance the ‘medicine’ was just chalk or something.
Climbing out of the backseat and behind the wheel, Stan felt rainwater sink into his shoes, which was concerning, considering the fact that he was wearing rain boots.
Trying to shake what he could of the water out onto the street, he started the car- It sputtered for a good two minutes before turning on, Stan crossing his fingers the entire time.
He had been to the bar he was meeting at before; In fact, he drove there enough that the route was almost muscle memory to get to. He vaguely remembered a poster saying there was live music at night, and because of that, there was an unusual abundance of forgotten wallets the morning after, left by people who’d probably forget where they were the previous day.
As Stan drove through the winding roads, face still screwed up in annoyance at the muggy atmosphere, he heard a faint dripping sound behind him. Knowing his car, it was probably oil or a crack in the ceiling of some sort- it had been falling apart for as long as he could remember. Damn, was he gonna have to get a leak fixed too?
Driving up to the bar he was told to meet at, Stan tried to survey his surroundings- he couldn’t see much with the fog, but the place seemed half empty as usual. Nobody really went there during the day. There was a row of five motorcycles though, so at least it wouldn’t be totally dead.
Walking in, Stan was hit with a blast of warm air. It was nice in a way. Despite the humidity of the rarely cleaned building, it was familiar- the bartenders there that he rarely talked to remained the same, and the seating never changed. Similar customers too, faithfully drinking their lives away to run from whatever was awaiting them at home.
Looking around trying to find the guy he was meeting, (still couldn’t remember the name) his vision was blocked by a group of bikers around the bar, talking illegibly in rowdy voices, using a plethora of colorful phrasing. Stan didn’t particularly dislike bikers, but wherever they went, law enforcement tended to follow suit. And he absolutely did have a bone to pick with law enforcement.
Finally, behind the posse in the middle of the building, he spotted the man he remembered. He had short buzzed hair with missing chunks, and was wearing what looked like a fourth-hand suit. Strange choice for a guy who seemed to fancy himself a salesman, Stan thought, nobody was gonna buy from a guy who dressed like that. But Stan didn’t really have any room to talk.
Speed walking past the bar and hoping the on-duty bartenders wouldn’t recognize him, (he’d stolen from the register earlier that month) he went to sit next to his contact.
As soon as he did sit down, the guy smiled for what Stan thought was an awkwardly long time, revealing teeth that seemed to have been brushed with a chainsaw covered in mud. Soft teeth, ran down to nubs. So either this guy was on something (hopefully not what he was selling) or he was just in desperate need of a hotel with a bathroom. As he started talking Stan attempted to pay attention and not stare at his teeth.
“Hey, Stan, right?” He put out a hand. Stan shook it. It was deeply unpleasant, considering the hand was sticky with something that looked vaguely like engine sludge.
“Yep, that’d be me. How ya been.. Jake?” Stan threw out a name, hoping the man might respond with what he had absolutely forgotten.
“John.”
“Right. Yep. Messin’ with ya.”
John cracked a smile.
“Had a feeling. Anyway, so about the offer- you’d be selling medicine, remember. From the business card.”
It was anyone’s bet whether the guy was talking about hardcore crack or ground up flour, and from the look of him Stan was thinking it might be the first one. But who knew? After all, with a suit like that, the guy had to be centimeters away from flat out broke.
“So, what’s it for? Who we sellin’ it to?” Specific wording tended to go over the heads of guys like John- saying stuff like ‘we’ gave them the feeling you’d already agreed. They’d spill more that way, be less cautious about what they said to a stranger.
“Eh, it’s sold for coughs and stuff. Just so ya know,” he leaned in now, looking around before continuing. Stanley mirrored his expression. “We don’t technically call it medicine, because it is technically rice flour. So we just say ‘supplements’, got it? Saves the paperwork.”
At least it wasn’t ground glass. Stan had seen that before, and it hadn’t ended particularly well for the guy who’d been selling. Most likely John’s target buyers were broke college students who didn’t wanna catch a flu they didn’t have the cash to treat.
“Yeah, alright. Now about the pay, I know we discussed-”
“HEY JOHN. WHERE THE HELL YA BEEN, YOU LITTLE SHIT!?”
A loud voice stopped Stan dead in his tracks, so he turned around in his seat to tell whoever just interrupted him to take a hike. But as he saw the source of the yell he decided it might be best to shut his mouth; Walking briskly towards the table was one of the bikers. Grown out blonde hair, an impressive scowl, and a leather jacket with enough patches on it to hold stiff.
Looking more pissed off than Stan had seen anyone other than himself in quite a while, the man walked up and slammed his fist on the table, causing John to jump and back up in his seat. Stan leaned back and tried to maintain an indifferent expression; he wasn’t a big fan of people yelling at him, but watching it was another story.
“Thought I told you that I didn’t wanna see ya here again. Especially if ya ain't gonna give me whatcha owe.”
“Heyyyy. Jimmy. How ya been, man?” John responded. He looked like he wanted to run, but the biker, Jimmy apparently, was very effectively blocking his path.
“Don’t give me that shit." The look on his face reminded Stan of the time he'd seen a coyote cornering a rabbit. "Last I saw, you were goin’ outta your way to avoid me. Wonder why that is. Could it have something to do with our deal that ya didn’t follow up on?”
Stan was turning his head between the argument, trying to keep a straight face. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying it a little. But as soon as he hears the last comment, he did a double take.
“Hey, uh. Pal. Whaddya mean ‘didn’t follow up’?” Stan chimed in, shooting a suspicious glance at John from across the table. As John shrunk under the glare, Jimmy turned to him.
“Why? You plannin’ to deal with him yourself?”
Stan didn’t say anything, assuming his silence would answer the question for him- and apparently, it did. Jimmy made a face of the most intense irritation Stan had ever seen, and slowly turned towards John once again, taking a step closer.
“You still doin’ the rice flour gig, John? Ya fuckin’ kidding me?”
Yeah, Stan had a sneaking suspicion that this job wasn’t gonna pan out.
John was looking quickly between that man yelling at him and his potential buyer, probably caught between trying to explain himself and shutting up to avoid getting socked in the face by a biker. He chose the latter.
Stan was standing now, walking away from the booth where Jimmy was still yelling, seemingly getting even more worked up than he was before. What a waste of a job offer.
Generally, Stan was exceptional when it came to knowing when somebody was trying to scam him out of some cash. Unfortunately for him, the same rules didn’t apply when the job offer itself was quite literally illegal. There were already all the cues of a lie, but every illicit deal had those. No way of knowing your audience with that one, really.
Walking over to the actual bar and sitting down, Stan ordered a beer. It was Meister Brau, about as cheap as it could get- but staying in the building and doing absolutely nothing was the alternative, and Stan didn’t loiter. Technically he was homeless, but as far as he was concerned, he shouldn’t act like it- that was nobody’s business but his own. Yeah, he looked like shit, but so did half the guys in this part of town, so nobody knew the difference.
Then again, nobody wanted to hire him once they knew he didn’t have a place to stay; At least nowhere with legal ways of pay. And since his seventeenth failed attempt at semi-legal business, he was done with the concept of trying to make his way in the world ethically.
Holding the beer in his hand without really sipping from it, Stan looked around. He did, in fact, need a job of some sort. Sure he didn’t have a house and he definitely didn’t pay taxes, but he needed gas for his car if he wanted to get around anywhere.
So where on earth was he gonna find cash now? The job offer from John had been a stroke of luck, a spur of the moment offer, and he was lucky to have had follow up on it even if it did turn out badly.
Come on, Stan, He chided himself. Think.
He ruined his chances at all the gas stations by stealing from the register. To be fair though, it was only unjustified once. None of the guys in town seemed to be selling anything that worked, all the drugs fake or cut. But as he was puzzling through his memory, something surprisingly obvious dawned on him.
The biker- Jimmy or whatever his name was. He was doing odd jobs too, how else would he have met John? And he had to have some sort of money; Broke people don’t drive motorcycles like the ones outside the bar.
Looking around, trying to find out where the hell Jimmy had gone, Stan noticed that the gang of bikers had split up. Probably for the best, he thought, especially if he wanted to talk alone. It would be significantly harder to get information out of someone in a group.
There. Jimmy was sitting across from him, on the other side of the centerpiece bar, drinking something that looked like vinegar and probably smelled like poison. He seemed to be in a much better mood than before, which was confirmed when Stan saw him counting through a stack of tens, presumably what John owed him.
Standing up and starting his way over to where Jimmy was sitting, Stan somewhat adjusted his posture. He had a tendency to slouch, and if he was planning to try making an impression for a job, he needed to look like he had some form of decency- despite the smoke smelling clothes he was wearing.
As he sat down next to Jimmy, he didn’t say anything at first. Get acknowledgement before you start talking, he told himself, remembering his mantra when dealing with new people. Jimmy looked over at him, seeming to recognize his face from his earlier tangent.
“You're the guy buyin’ from John.” He stated, almost as if waiting for denial. He had a strange accent, almost bostonian despite the location
“Well, not anymore. Doubt he’ll be dyin’ to talk to me now.” Stan responded, though not accusatory.
Stuffing the cash he was holding in his pocket, Jimmy slightly leaned forward on the counter.
“He might come around if yer thinking about takin’ him up on his offer.”
“Nah, not after what I just heard. He really doesn’t pay back?”
“Not a dime.”
“Huh. Shame.”
Okay so. Conversation was good- if there was one thing Stan knew it’s that people don’t like answering questions, especially if said questions are about cash. But get them to talk about themselves and warm up, usually things go a lot smoother.
Looking over at Jimmy, Stan tried to figure out as much as he could from appearance; This wasn’t really that hard, considering the circumstances.
The patches covering the back of his jacket read various slang and political jokes- the only one Stan really recognized was the big ‘A’ for anarchy. It was common for bikers to wanna piss off the cops, he supposed, and nothing did that like insulting their job. There was also a red bandana hanging around his neck, probably used to go over his head when riding a motorcycle. This guy was obviously a piece of shit. That wasn’t a bad thing though- after Stan himself fell into that category, and if anybody knew where to find a job it would be this guy.
“You and your group hang around this place a lot? I haven’t seen you guys here before.”
Jimmy took a long sip of whatever he was drinking, and set it down slowly. He didn't answer immediately, weighing the pros and cons of speaking.
“Our old joint got shut down- rats or something." Even the in the simple statement, he sounded on edge.
“Oh, The Clooney? Yeah, I’ve been there. Heard they were closing up. Why this place though? It’s a shithole.” Stan asked, finally taking a drink from his own bottle. As expected, it was terrible.
“If it’s a shithole what’re you doin’ here?” Jimmy snorted, nodding his head toward Stan.
“I was meeting someone, remember? You saw him.”
“So how’d ya know that I ain’t a regular?”
“Delightful intuition.” Stan drummed his knuckles on the table, leaning back in his seat slightly, almost forgetting that the stool he was sitting on didn’t have a back.
Talking to someone in a controlled environment was always strange- there was an air of casualty that didn’t suit the stress Stan felt to try and figure out where this guy worked. Because sure, the conversation was normal, but the motive behind it was enough to make someone’s head spin.
“Not just the bar though- I don’t think I’ve seen your buddies around Michigan at all before. You guys not big on socials?”
“Not durin’ the day. Tend to join in on the nightlife though. Surprised ya haven’t seen us actually, you seem like the sort.” Jimmy replied, a skeptical look on his face.
“Eh, nightlife isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Drinks are louder and more expensive, and everybody’s pissed in the morning.”
“Maybe at bars, sure. Doesn’t mean that’s all there is; My group wouldn’t hang around here if there wasn’t something to do.”
So there was more to do in this place. Stan had been trying to find out what was up with the town. The people all seemed like jackasses and the crime rate was high, but there was no evidence of what was being done to make it that way. Jimmy seemed to know.
But from the look on his face, Jimmy also knew what Stan was getting at by asking about it. His face was playing at an expression that looked like a question- inquisitive with a bit of amusement, as if he knew exactly why Stan was asking. Probably paranoia, but who knew?
Okay sure, maybe he hadn’t been as subtle as he should’ve been, but if he wanted to buy gas he needed to figure this out as soon as possible. And here was a perfect opportunity to find a way to get some cash- and maybe if he got enough he could go find a town with some sort of actual employment.
Stan’s suspicions were confirmed by Jimmy’s follow up question.
“You tryna get in on it? Seem to be askin’ a lotta questions.” Jimmy asked, grinning before taking another drink from his glass.
For a split second, Stan wondered if he should just keep up the guise- it always worked eventually, even if it took a while. But this guy seemed like the straightforward sort, and his type generally preferred if you said what you meant. And at the end of the day, he didn’t seem too bent out of shape when talking about where he spent his time.
“I’m new here, looking for a job. I dunno if ‘nightlife’ is gonna have any of that, though.” Stan replied- basically honesty, if he left some of the truth out, nobody could hold it against him.
“Like I said- it ain’t just bars I’m talkin’ about.” Jimmy turned in his seat, a focused expression crossing his face. Then, he put his hand out in front of himself for Stan to shake; A handshake was a subconscious sort of agreement, a split second decision that could either turn out good or bad. And because Stan wasn’t one to waste an opportunity, he shook it.
“Jimmy, right? That’s what John said your name was.”
“Jimmy Snakes.”
Well, that was a weird fucking name.
“I’m Stan. Or Stanley, doesn’t matter to me.”
Legally, his name was ‘Panley Stines’ but since he didn’t use ID and certainly didn’t pay bills, he didn’t really need to use it. Everybody who knew him here (two people) knew him by the name Stan, and he was fine with that.
“Where ya from, then? Haven’t heard that accent before.”
“Jersey.”
“Eugh, you kiddin’?”
“Unfortunately not. Left as fast as I could though, so that’s something.”
Jimmy laughed- actually it was more like a wheeze. His voice was scratchy, and if Stan had to guess, he definitely smoked something. You don’t get a voice like that from genetics, firsthand experience told him so. After all, his own voice was almost worse.
“If yer lookin’ around for a job or something, ya should consider going further downtown. ‘Round where The Clooney used to be. That’s where most of my crowd stays.”
“Seriously? Isn’t that right next to the police precinct?”
Jimmy leaned back and raised his eyebrows, playing at a mysterious expression. He seemed to be enjoying talking about it, probably because of the whole ‘biking next to the police station’ thing. Stan wouldn’t be surprised if he’d gotten into a scuffle with the cops or two.
“Yeah, yeah. But it’s also right next to the track.”
“This place has a track? I looked all over, couldn’t find one.” Stan raised an eyebrow skeptically. When he’d first gotten to Dowagiac about a month ago, he’d looked all over for any sort of track, because despite what people claimed, betting absolutely was a strong suit. But as he’d said, he had no such luck.
“Well, track is a relative term, ya know. It’s just a shitty road in an old neighborhood. Nobody really lives there anymore, it got cleared after a fire. They hold races and stuff- easy way to make cash if you’re any good.”
Stan was definitely not ‘any good’. Last time he’d tried to race, he’d ended up with a road rash that landed him three days in a hospital- he’d snuck out before they charged him the ambulance bill, but it still cost him 50 bucks for the painkillers.
“Anybody there make betting rounds? That’s more my forte.”
“Everybody bets. You sure you wanna be doin’ that, though? If that sedan out there is yours, you might wanna keep outta the betting pool.”
Stan scoffed and took a sip from his bottle while he thought of an excuse of some sorts. The only thing he could think of was ‘Haha, what. Nope. That sedan was parked when I got here. Totally. I walked.’ But something told him that it came across even worse than the original issue.
“Like I said- it’s my forte. Guarantee I’ll do fine.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
There was a pause for a few seconds, though not awkward; Jimmy seemed to think on something before asking his next question.
“So, what’s yer deal?”
Stan raised an eyebrow, unsure whether or not he should be offended. Was this some sort of insult or a genuine question? It was hard to tell from the way it was asked. He didn’t look like he was trying to insult anyone, but it was anyone’s bet.
“My deal?”
“Yeah. Everyone’s got a deal.”
“I gotta be honest with you Jimmy, I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
Jimmy tsked, probably louder than he needed to- it had the air of performance. Like the hand-over-head that some people act out before they faint in a stage play.
“Well, when yer out here long enough you’ll meet some people. You’ll know what I’m sayin’ soon enough.” He paused, before continuing in a matter-of-fact voice. “Why the hell are ya in Michigan anyway? Not many people’s first choice.”
Stan paused. He’d been talking to this guy long enough to get the answers he needed- he should probably up and leave now, right? That would be the quickest course of action if he was going to listen to his self-preservation, which said ‘Don’t talk to bikers longer than you need to, dumbass’. On the other hand though, it had been a while since he’d had a conversation that didn’t revolve around terms of deals, or some kind of purchase.
It couldn’t hurt to have a talk. Usually he tried to avoid wasting time on stuff like that- he had things to do- but being alone working all day was Stan’s idea of hell, and he wasn’t keen to go take another day-long nap out of boredom.
After all, it was a good bet that Stan was never gonna see this guy again.
“You said it yourself; Anything’s better than Jersey. What’s your excuse?”
“Born here. Don’t plan on leavin’ anytime soon.”
“Aren’t you a biker? I thought this town was pretty heavy on the rules.”
“Nah, nobody’s got the fundin’. The only thing the cops here care about is their next paycheck.”
Looking to his side, Stan saw Jimmy spinning his glass bottle around on its edge, looking seconds away from being knocked over; He was surprised it wasn’t all over the floor, it was barely balancing on the guy’s fingertips.
“Do you do the racing? Or is the track just a stomping ground for the town?”
Jimmy stopped spinning the bottle and flicked the edge before settling it down on the counter.
“I race. Not that great, but it’s a way to kill time. You’d need a car though, if you’re fixin’ to try.” He looked pointedly at Stan during that last part, likely talking about the scrap car that could be seen from the window. And he had a point, no way was anybody gonna race in that thing.
“Not much of a racer. I don’t see any reason to fuck up a perfectly fine car, even if it is for money.”
Stan noticed that Jimmy seemed to take personal issue with the sound ‘ing’- that was a Boston accent right? He’d heard it before. As he tried to puzzle through it in his head, there was a cheer from the table over- the biker gang that Jimmy seemed to be a part of. He didn’t seem to notice, as he was still balancing the now-empty bottle in his hands on two fingers.
“When are there people there? Is there an opening time or something?”
Jimmy leaned back so far in his chair before answering that Stan was half certain he was about to fall backwards.
“Most people are there around 11:00 till it starts gettin’ bright out. Well, not on Sundays for some reason- figure it’s the sabbath or somethin’ like that.”
It was a Wednesday. That meant Stan had a chance at getting some cash tonight- well hopefully. To be honest he didn’t really know yet if the people in this town were reasonable about money. He sure as hell wasn’t.
Now that Stan had at least some semblance of determination in the future, he had to get ready for it; Because no way was he about to go to the track without anything on him.
He needed to get back to his car to grab some things, and he wasn’t dying to dig around in the backseat for his pocket knife in front of a bar in the afternoon, so he came to the conclusion it was time to leave.
“Well, nice talking to you man.” Stan said abruptly, nearly knocking his char over with the speed in which he stood up. Jimmy looked caught off guard and leaned back a bit- probably wary of a guy who was suddenly acting inebriated. Stan backtracked, trying to slow down his movements.
“Yeah. You too, have a good one.” Jimmy said, still looking cagey. He turned back to the counter and raised his hand for a second, probably trying to get the bartender’s attention. He wasn’t successful however, so he switched to drumming his fingers on the corner of the counter.
As Stan walked away, he tried to avoid the group of bikers that seemed to be intent on staring at him, obviously trying to figure out why he was talking to one of their group. And since he didn’t have an answer for them, he was making as little eye contact as possible.
Finally reaching the door and opening it so quickly that a loud creak filled the room, he looked behind him, trying to see whether anybody was planning on yelling about the noise. Thankfully nobody seemed to care, but he did notice a head turned his way. Jimmy Snakes was still looking at him with the exact same expression; Slight frown with furrowed brows, still trying to piece something together. Then he turned back to his posse, and continued talking about whatever was making them so damn loud.
Closing the door more gently than he cared for in an attempt to not make another ruckus, Stan ambled back over to his car. He tried taking care to not step into any rain puddles, but when it proved to be futile he just made a straightaway to the side-door.
As he was driving back to the lot where he usually parked to sleep, his sedan still dripping oil, he tried to think ahead. It wasn’t his strong suit per say, but hey. It had to count for something.
Going to this track was an opportunity, and it was one Stan was willing to take. Money and assholes meant jobs and people who were just begging to be pickpocketed, so it had to be a win-win even if he didn’t really know anybody there. However, he should probably bring some sort of weapon, because the idea of being near a bunch of criminals unarmed was a bad one. Even if Stan was technically a criminal himself.
The rain started up even more viciously whenever Stan parked his car, and reminiscent of that morning, he stared at the rain droplets on the window.
Here he was, planning uselessly for something that would probably go fine. Just like what Ford used to do when they were kids, making lists for every social interaction that would come his way. The difference between that and this was that only one of them had reason.
Stan was pretty good at ignoring things that he didn’t want to think about, from rent prices to people. But the rain, along with the altercation at the bar seemed to have an affect on his ability to repress shit he didn’t care to entertain.
The thought of his brother always pissed Stan off in five different ways, and that combined with the pain of not seeing your twin for three years didn’t make it any less annoying. The plethora of emotion that he had to untangle everytime was very consuming, but putting it off could only last so long, especially whenever attempting to get other things done.
It was too much. Missing somebody that didn’t miss you back. So Stan did his level best to shove it out of his mind as quickly and efficiently as he could muster, before the anger could start bubbling in his chest.
It was around 2:30 now, so he had a while to wait before going to do anything. The track apparently wasn’t busy until later, and he didn’t wanna waste whatever gas he had on driving somewhere he didn’t need to go. Stan had a deal with himself about not panhandling, the result of hubris mixed with impatience.
There was a pang in his side as he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday. And even then, the only thing he’d consumed had been salt and vinegar beef jerky, so obviously he felt disgusting. There was a chance somebody might be selling food at the track, even if it was a slim one, so he decided to wait it out until he had an answer.
Messing with the gears of his seat until he was leaned back as far as he could go, he turned onto his side to try and get comfortable. His best bet if he wanted to kill time was napping, or trying to think of something entertaining. There was a library and an arcade down the street, but reading was as obnoxious as ever and he wasn’t going to waste any spare change on a game.
As his head rolled to one side, a strand of limp hair fell into his face. He couldn’t quite remember how long it had been since he washed it.
The week before September was when he’d bought a motel room so… three weeks. Gross.
Stan’s hair was originally chopped short in front of a rear-view mirror, as short as he could get it, in the middle of the night. Since then, he’d been doing his best to keep it out of his face and it had sprouted into a sort of pseudo-mullet, longer in the front than in the back. It didn’t have any really reference or shape to it, hanging down to his eyes and stringy with oil.
God, he really did look like shit didn’t he?
With the banged up jeans and old T-shirt, he seemed like the perfect example of ‘Don’t hang around that screwup honey, he’s bad news’. Go figure.
Popping his back and shutting his eyes tighter, Stan tried to capture the sleep that was still eluding him. Maybe it had something to do with the seven hour nap he’d already taken today, but he was sure that he read somewhere about lack of food making people tired. And he was damn near starving.
He tried to clear his mind and calm down.
No such luck.
Sitting up finally and grumbling to himself, it occurred to him that he might not be able to sleep his way through his boredom. He looked around the car, looking for anything remotely interesting in an attempt to do something productive or entertaining.
Once again, nothing.
Fine. He could just hang out and do nothing. Nothing was stopping him from going and trying to get work done or talk to people, but in the current rain Stan wasn’t going to step foot outside.
With that, he did exactly what he hated. Sat down and left himself to his own devices, going through the thoughts in his head like a mantra, the same words becoming meaningless after the repetition started becoming longer.
Turning phrases and images and memories around in his skull, none of the thoughts sticking long enough to form coherency. Thoughts like ‘Track’ and ‘Damn bikers’ and ‘Lists that Ford made’ and ‘I have to fix that leak’ and ‘Boston accent’ and ‘I need a haircut’ and ‘God my stomach hurts’.
Thoughts like ‘If you screw this up tonight, where the hell are you gonna go next?’
Nights like these tended to go drastically different than expected. Hell, Stan had a buddy who went to a race and ended up in a wheelchair for a decade. Stan wasn’t planning to be anywhere near Michigan in ten years, especially if he could play off of a job offer until then and get somewhere where he could make real cash; But he supposed he shouldn’t get ahead of himself.
After all, he still had plenty of bad decisions to make in the meantime.