Friends, I have a deep fear of being a one-trick pony. I like to spread my efforts, so I do pen the *occasional* story. I struggle with crafting good, long form narrative. More than one character? Dialogue?!? Clever plot points?!? It’s all… too much. This short story is originally from 2015! I found the OG version of it in the form of a few paragraphs from a HS creative writing class. I’ve worked on it at random points since then. Funny, the first few sentences are almost verbatim from the 2015 version. Anyhoo. “Ivy Remembers Gasoline” will be released in three parts. It’s a story about leaving, missing family, and a questionable career path that leads us both further from and closer to home.

PART ONE

Ivy touched her thumb to the hangnail on her pointer finger and cursed underneath her breath. She forgot to pick up a nail clipper on her way in, the one with the curved point they used in nail salons to get at the cuticles. She knew she should stop touching it. For one, it hurt like a bitch when she did. More importantly, hangnails could quickly become infected — and Ivy’s hands were filthy. She decided then; she’d make do with a band-aid until she could get a nail clipper. Ivy would take care of that later, though. For now, she unscrewed the cap on the gasoline can.

It would be generous to call the structure she stood in a home — for people, anyway. The mice and roaches clearly lived contentedly. Here was the scene: In the living room, a big plastic foldable table with equally foldable chairs around it. An old school TV sat on top of the kitchen counter. Water dripped an odd color from the faucet. Buzzing light flickered in the bathroom like a scene from a cheesy horror movie. And one bedroom, the only room Ivy noted, that seemed livable. A small twin cot covered with a horrendous multicolored afghan was pressed against the corner of the room. Surprising herself, she bent to touch it, thinking the blanket was softer than it looked. She sighed tiredly. It wasn’t Ivy’s job to know who had to rest on this cot. She wasn’t supposed to wonder whose grandma had knitted that God awful afghan and how it got to be here, in front of Ivy, who was soon to burn it to nothing. But knowing her instructions focused her, gave her a point of direction. She drained the last of the gasoline in the only livable room, making sure to douse the cot and blanket extra.

Once finished, she stood just outside the doorway of the house. She wasn’t worried about anyone seeing her. She really was standing in front of the only structure for miles. Feeling in her back pocket for the box of matches, she took a few self-preserving steps back. Ivy then struck a match, watched the flames eat the wood almost until it burned her finger, and threw it into the open doorway. It was seconds before the door frame was entirely engulfed. The house looked cartoonishly evil now, like a portal to hell. Squinting against the light, she peddled back further to see her work. Funny that she got chills even though the fire’s heat made her turn away towards the car. This was the first time she’d ever identified with a building. Ivy felt burnt out, tired, crumbling. The cot only seemed more and more appealing as she walked away. It would be dust soon.

Ivy put her car into drive and started forward, away from the inferno she could see through the side-view mirror. Driving away, she wasn’t sure why she was especially glad this job was done. She’d always completed her assignments without delay. The risk here had been low. Ivy had been in far more compromising situations than burning down a stupid house. No tricky handoffs. No physical injury. No intelligence mining. It should’ve been an ideal day. Trying to clear her mind, she took a deep inhale, but the smell of gasoline poisoned the fresh air. The scent wafted directly from her hands on the steering wheel into her face, and she felt personally attacked. She rolled her eyes at how stupidly easy it was for her mind to shift back so many years from one scent; gasoline reminded Ivy of her childhood.

A decent portion of Ivy’s life was spent sitting in a car with her parents and younger brother. She moved chronically as a child, as her parents were hippie nomad types. Of course, she was essentializing entire human beings into two-dimensional archetypes. Even she would admit that. But distilling their character down helped her make sense of the world they built for her. And it was comical how much they fit the stereotype. A “Make Love Not War” sticker was plastered on the bumper of every piece of shit car they owned. 

Her parents could never explain why they wanted to leave in any terms suitable to a child, and Ivy learned to stop asking. Stopped caring, too. Her only moments of stasis were at gas stations, where packets of Peanut M&M’s were tossed into the window for breakfast, and Ivy felt the relief of using the bathroom after a 9-hour drive. Her younger brother Otis would torture her with descriptions of a toilet bowl oasis long from where they sat.

Realizing how tightly she gripped her hands to the steering wheel, she flexed her cramping fingers. How many years had it been since she’d seen Otis last? Too long, she admitted. There couldn’t be room for him in her mind now. Her job required her to focus on getting to the next location, where she could contact her employer safely. These instructions stilled her. Unsurprisingly, Ivy sometimes reveled in being told what to do. 

She left home at seventeen. At the time, she considered it an act of defiance, half knowing defying her parents was an impossible task. To find your way was a “sacred undertaking.” So yes, she snorted, it was laughable that she ever dreamed they’d protest. What did she expect from people who made their lives out of leaving? She should know, being one of those people now, herself. Really, Ivy wanted them to tell her to stay. She thought you keep the things you love. At least, you try. And Ivy desired to be kept, which was by far the most shameful feeling she owned. 

Home never became a concept to her the way her parents wanted. Ivy wished for the pleasure of planting something in the backyard and still being around to see it push through the fucking dirt. All the same, she was incapable of sympathizing with herself for too long. Self-pity hung wrong on Ivy, no matter how she wore it. Cruelly, her mind told her it was pathetic to invest wanting in years that could never return to you. 

Packing that suitcase at seventeen splintered her life in unexpected directions. It bothered her to wonder what would’ve been if she hadn’t left that day. More troubling for her to imagine; ending up in this car with a house still smoldering miles behind her was always the likeliest option. With the slightest resistance, Ivy fell into the gulf of thought and memory that pairs well with a lonely drive.