‘Greed has long been the bedfellow of alchemy, the ancient tradition thriving on gross excess of riches and spirit. It is no different now, in this era, and here, in the Wayside, where there is nothing of necessity and an excess of want, where, if things were just a little closer, even stranger locales might emerge.
For true excess, the author suggests a stop-in at ‘The Fountain of Youth,’ just off I-10 in Eastern Arizona. An otherwise ordinary convenient store, ‘The Fountain of Youth’ boasts the largest operating fountain drink system in existence, spanning three of its four walls and offering soda in flavors long retired and brands so divisive that they rarely exist under one roof. Cup sizes are American standard, which is to say, ranging from large to absurd, and refills cost just fifty-cents.
Connoisseurs may be interested in ‘The Cookbook,’ a sticky binder of crowdsourced recipes, recipes, here, meaning sickly sweet combinations of ‘The Fountain’s’ offerings. Conspicuously absent is the concoction known by many names: ‘Graveyard,’ ‘Tiger’s Blood,’ and, commonly, ‘Suicide.’ Equal parts of every soda, the ‘Suicide of Youth’ is said to rot teeth and grant visions of future trouble.’
The ‘Suicide of Youth,’ as Shitholes calls it, will only fit in the largest cup size available at the ‘Fountain’- a gallon bucket with a flimsy plastic lid.
“You can refill it for fifty cents,” the cashier reminds me when I scoff at the $20 price tag.
I look out the window at the window, at the flat, abandoned landscape, and I wonder if I will ever have reason to come back.
The cashier shrugs, as though in response to my thoughts, and rings up the heavy vessel.
In a slip of shade near the parking lot, I pry the lid off the cup and study the mixture. It took several colors before settling on a thin brown about a third of the way through the pouring procedure, only to become clear again when the last soda was poured (‘Diet Orange Blast’). It fizzes wildly in the sun, like the applause of a tiny audience, and it distorts the reflection of my face so that I barely recognize the man I see there.
This may be the symptom of a larger problem.
It’s been weeks since I have looked into a mirror. Maybe months. I put my helmet on before mounting the bike- I forgo washing my hands in public restrooms. There were unconscious actions until I realized I was performing them. Now they are just actions.
The man in the soda looks nothing like me.
I close the cup and, with some effort, pry the bike’s speedometer open. Inside are my teeth, just a couple, and I take one back to the shade where it is promptly dissolved by a straw-full of the ‘Suicide.’ There were rumors about this online, from a woman who claims to have lost all of her teeth but gained insight into all of her life’s corners and what waits beyond them. The trick, it’s said, is to take the drink in the back of the throat. It only seems to dissolve bone.
It’s said.
A semi-truck thunders down the interstate and a bird circles in the sky above me. I pick nervously at my skin and spit several times. Finally, I gather some of the liquid into the straw, holding it there with the vacuum created by my finger. I take care to wipe the outside down and I take several deep breaths, leaning with my back to the tree for support. I bring the straw to my mouth and-
“You can’t loiter out here!” the cashier yells from across the lot.
I start at the noise and my finger slips. I feel a sharp, dental twinge and then the world goes black.
I begin to see things, in the darkness.
-traveler
