Viewport width =
May 11, 2014 | by  | in Arts Online Only |
Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

Tom Robbins Writes No Country

Anton Chigurh walked into the surgically clean gas station.  He stood for a moment allowing himself to be framed in the entrance before walking towards the counter.  Each step carrying a booming thud, yet soft in its echo.  Anton paid for his petrol.

‘You all getting rain up your way’?  The proprietor asked.

 ‘Which way would that be?

‘I seen you are from California’.

Chigurh just wanted to cut loose and vamoose, but here he was on the verge of exchanging banter with a conversationally starved hillbilly, a mongoose held captive by a chatty cobra. But little did the proprietor know.

 ‘And what businesses is it of yours friendo?

‘I was just passing the time of day’.

 ‘To pass the time of day would suggest time travel and LSD’

‘I’m sorry mister I didn’t mean nothing by it’

 ‘Whenever bad grammar is used, a person in the world drops a joint in water’.

The proprietor looked out to the fore court, it was barren and offered little hope.

Will there be anything else’.

‘I don’t know will there?’

‘Can I help you with anything else?’

‘You can help explain why fashions come and go but the length of a cheerleaders skirt remains the same.’

The proprietor paused, this was a crucial question.

‘I guess some things never change’.


‘Will there be anything else?’

‘You already asked me that’

‘Is something wrong mister?’

‘I don’t know is there?’

This endless game of what do you think had the potential to either go on forever ending only when the two men died, or stop there. Both possible tangents for life to go, both hinging on this moment in time.  At this point the coin that Anton had been traveling with became self-aware, possibly dude to the cosmic force of parallel universe’s colliding maybe static electricity.  As Anton fished in his pocket the coin slipped into his hand, 22 years of traveling had lead him here and unless the proprietor called that he was sitting on his ass he would most likely start his next journey with blood over him……

Share on FacebookShare on Google+Pin on PinterestTweet about this on Twitter

About the Author ()

Comments are closed.

Recent posts

  1. There’s a New Editor
  2. An (im)possible dream: Living Wage for Vic Books
  3. Salient and VUW tussle over Official Information Act requests
  4. One Ocean
  5. Orphanage voluntourism a harmful exercise
  6. Interview with Grayson Gilmour
  7. Political Round Up
  8. A Town Like Alice — Nevil Shute
  9. Presidential Address
  10. Do You Ever Feel Like a Plastic Bag?

Editor's Pick

In Which a Boy Leaves

: - SPONSORED - I’ve always been a fairly lucky kid. I essentially lucked out at birth, being born white, male, heterosexual, to a well off family. My life was never going to be particularly hard. And so my tale begins, with another stroke of sheer luck. After my girlfriend sugge