KALOKAGATHIA By Jayson Bowles '17
An excerpt from a novel in progress, begun in Bill Carpenter's winter 2014 class, Starting Your Novel.
12/21/2013 I keep dreaming I'm trapped inside a kaleidoscope. It's different than any other dream I've ever had, and it's been going on for a while now. No idea how long exactly. There's no beginning or end to the place, just me, surrounded by a hexagonal mirror. There's a reflective floor and ceiling too. I seem to go on forever. I know I'm in a kaleidoscope because as soon as I've looked in every direction and seen that each is a mirror, things start to distort. Shapes, colors, and fractals all start to bend and mess with my reflection, each reflection in a different way, and it really confuses me. Not just a little bit of confusion, but a lot, the kind of confusion you could only get in a dream, if that makes any sense. I get this feeling, this really unshakable feeling, that no matter what I do, I will become whatever I look at. Like I don't exist at all, like I'm just bokeh, just random little blurred things of shape and light in the background of my own reflections. And then, sooner or later, I wake up. It always feels incomplete. The dream isn't a nightmare or anything, it's just I've been having this dream over and over and I don't know if it means something or doesn't. And it confuses me, enough to write this little journal. The hexagonal mirrors kind of remind me of the outward triple window at the gas station, but I don't know. At the same time it doesn't really remind me of anything at all. I need to put this down and get ready for work. 12/28/2013 Seven more dreams exactly the same. Seven more nights of exactly the same bullshit at work. I know this journal was for dreams, but I am desperate to vent right now. Paul, that fat bastard, gets on my last nerve. When he smokes in the camera room and 38
listens to shitty Europop we're fine, but every single time he comes up front for whatever stupid reason, we get into an argument over the most asinine stuff. Today he got all up in my face because I didn't see some guy who stole some Doritos. I don't even think anyone stole them, I just think that one individual bag fell off the truck when we were unloading or something, so we were one short. Then he starts accusing me of stealing the Doritos, like what the hell, I don't even like 'em. Then he says I'm a liar and that I love Doritos. I just don't get this guy. I think he likes conflict or something. He never even reprimands me or fires me either, just always complains at me. Man, on those nights when he's not there, it is sublime. So, so sublime. So long as no one robs the place, but I mean that doesn't happen much. It'll be pitch dark outside and the white and fake bulbs will flare out into the night, and like moths to the flame people from all around with all different agendas come to the gas station. Oh man, I make it sound so noble, but on nights when you're pretty plastered, it's pretty noble. And you know there really is a romance to it between the humdrum dealings with friendly-enough neighborhood regulars and the random drifter. In those silent moments in between the slow stream of customers, the coincidences of the night happen. One car arrives on the side, parks, but no one leaves. Another, after a time, arrives, parks beside it, and people exit and enter. I am aware of it but I don't see it, don't pay attention to it. One leaves, then another, or sometimes, one stays a while and more come and go. Those can be pretty dangerous. Stray gunshots, intentional gunshots, stabbings, and that's before the police get involved. It doesn't happen much, but it's
happened, so I'm on my guard. Happens enough that I'm happy to see familiar faces. I am sure as hell always happy to see Rudy. Rudy, my man, the old, fat sack of crap that comes in every single night, I shit you not, and always gets the same off-brand hundred-proof booze and the same package of thick and husky cigars. He's real scraggly and always wearing tacky old sweaters and horrible cheap cologne. That doesn't do him justice, though. Rudy is the kind of guy who will sneak up behind some guy robbing the place, knock him out with a forty, help you hold the guy down while the police take an eternity to show up, and then smoke with you after your shift is over to help you de-stress. To quote something my dad once said about somebody else, "He's a tengallon man in a one-gallon body." Paul would drive me crazy if Rudy wasn't around to help me out. He tells a lot of stories, apparently he's exmilitary from 'Nam or something like that. I've hung out with him once or twice, and he's so relaxed, it's weird. I thought he'd be a really pent-up kind of guy, but he just seems to coast on life, kind of like a car with its lights off coasting into the empty desert. He doesn't really take anything seriously, which is one of the reasons I like him so much. He's always the first regular to show up, and I'm always happy to see that good old guy. Oscar, the next guy, is a little different. Me and Oscar have one of those kind of acquaintanceships where there's kind of a median of awkwardness that prevents us from merging, if that makes any sense. He probably wouldn't understand what I meant just there. Despite that barrier we get along well enough. He always comes in this stark, burnt-orange Dodge Challenger with dual black COLLEGE OF THE ATLANTIC MAGAZINE