From “The Story of the New Bumper”

Running late. Cruising along on empty, the light flashing, that warning gong making itself known as Mike attempted to minimize the visual impact of his bald patch in the rear-view mirror by tilting his head in increments. On the passenger seat lay a sad looking bouquet of grocery store checkout flowers, heavy on the limp, little white ones. He drove to that little store, half diner, half grocery store at lunch, out in Lashburn today. That’s why his tank hadn’t lasted the week. An unintentional trip. The red sticker caught Mike’s eye and he thought about peeling it from the Cellophane. Changed his mind as he shifted lanes, accelerating. It might be best if she saw he’d spent a few dollars thinking about her today.

The gas station was coming up on the left. If he didn’t turn in, he’d wind up late for work tomorrow. He’d be late for the morning meeting, would miss those minutes when everyone was busy and he could flirt with the new redhead, the secretary, transferred from out east, when he could take a shit in the bathroom on the second floor before the employees working there showed up and wanted to spend twenty minutes in the bathroom taking a shit of their own. So Mike turned into the gas station, reached out to keep his coffee mug from falling from the too-small cup holder, like he did every time he turned left.

One empty spot. Only one on account of the afternoon price drop.

Mike went for it, driving a bit too fast around the corner. He’d have to back in, but it would get him home quicker, to work on time in the a.m. A red dually truck, its bulky wheels heading towards Mike’s spot. Trying to take it from him. “Not going to happen, buddy. Never going to happen. Wait your own turn, asshole.” He whipped around the second corner with a wicked squeal.

The dually stopped when Mike took the corner. Gave in to Mike, backed off. Time to go for the brake, but during that last left turn, Mike had forgotten to hold a hand out to steady the coffee mug and it came up out of the too-small holder, fell to the floor, rolled under the brake. Mike jumped the curb and hit the pump. A hiss escaped from the pump. The woman at the pump ahead of Mike dropped her gas cap and ran for the road, her arms flailing above her.

Mike felt around the passenger seat for his cellphone, mangling the flowers when they got in his way. He hit the speed-dial. “Yeah, I’ve got a problem. At the Esso just east of Lloydminster.” He took a breath, his hand shaking as he reached for a cigarette. The people around him still standing at their pumps, admiring the truck and damage from a distance, began yelling. “Yeah. An accident,” Mike replied into the phone, flicking at his lighter.