All roads in life twist and turn to the same place… a gas station. The only true melting pot still left in this world. It’s the place where the rich wait in line with the poor. Where excitement shakes hands with depression. The place where you get to see the past, present, and future of humanity all waiting in the same damn line. It’s unapologetic. It’s real. It’s conveniently inconvenient, and it’s here where the road releases its secrets.

Jasper and Omar enter the gas station, their arrival announced by the doorbell’s familiar DING. Omar couldn’t help but rub his temples as the weight of reality bore down on him, threatening to crush his head.

The gas station’s overly fluorescent lights and the sharp smell of chemicals weren’t exactly helping the cause either. Even worse were the loud screams coming from behind the counter. They were deep, angry, and filled with rage, all things one doesn’t want to see when they stumble into a gas station. And this begged Omar and Jasper to take in the spectacle that is roadside America.

Standing behind the gas station counter was a husk of a man who looked as if he’d seen the worst of humanity. And to be fair, when you work at a roadside gas station with only one tiny bathroom, you probably have.

He has tattered grey skin, and his eyes seem to scream for a cigarette break, but unfortunately, his escape was blocked. Because the hot-headed leprechaun-looking man, mouth still blaring, was standing on the other side of the counter with eyes filled with fire. He wore a green suit jacket with red hair pouring out from under his shillelagh cap and was shaking his lottery ticket so hard, you’d have to assume the gas station attendant stole his pot-o-gold.

“Now listen here, my lad, by state law, you have to cash me out! I don’t care if you don’t have money! The Ford sitting out front will do just fine.” The Leprechaun Man screams.

Omar and Jasper lean into the performance like they were in the audience of a Jerry Springer show, enjoying the rich American drama of a good old-fashioned public outburst. Fuck did they ever wish they had popcorn.

“Listen, Bub; I don’t got to do shit – it’s my gas station,” The Attendant grumbles.

Jasper looks at Omar. “You never call a grown man Bub…it’s like eating bad coleslaw- it won’t sit well.”

Omar rolls his eyes.

“I’m not your Bub… BUB!” says The Leprechaun Man.

The Leprechaun Man leans over the counter and pulls off the attendant’s badge. It reads Bob.

“If anyone’s a bub, it’s you Bob!” He screams as he slams his badge down, creating a sharp crack that rings out across the gas station.

Jasper nudges Omar.

“See what I mean?” Omar nods with a half-smile.

The Gas Station Attendant fully opens his eyes for what may have been the first time and squeezes his fist so hard that his knuckles turn white.

“Get the fuck out of my gas station! Bub!” Bob roars.

Jasper and Omar shift uncomfortably, unsure whether to step in or stay out, as they exchange sideways glances. The Leprechaun Man looks through the gas station attendant, sizing him up, deciding if he can take him. After a moment, he passes. Instead, he reaches into his jacket and produces a business and slams it on the counter.

“Listen Bub – you’re going to get my money, and you’re going to call me when you have it.” He motions to his card on the counter. “If I don’t hear from you in an hour, me and my friends are gonna pay you a visit. And I promise you this, it ain’t gonna be friendly.” The Leprechaun Man hisses before turning the corner and hastily bumping into Jasper on the way out.

Omar bristles, but Jasper shrugs it off with a slight smile at his son’s reaction. There must be some love left in his heart.

Now, standing in the moist air of a thoroughly awkward moment, they approach the attendant, who is a human volcano coming down from an eruption; his face still red. Tepidly, Jasper and Omar approach the counter.

“Eh – man, is your restaurant still open?” Jasper says, behind an I-just-saw-you-embarrass-yourself smile.

Bob frowns as if the question is beneath him. As if Jasper and Omar should have been able to read an invisible sign that told them the store’s hours. Then, inconceivably, he pulls his dirty trucker hat down off his head, complete with a ring of white, dried sweat, and puts on a 1950s diner’s chef hat on top of his head. The attention to detail was as frightening as Wes Anderson’s.

“Right this way, your majesty.” Bob snarks and steps out from behind the counter and leads the men past the sugary sweet shit all stoners love to a table in the back of the restaurant.

Omar and Jasper make eye contact, connecting over an awkward moment.

The restaurant had all the hallmarks of a dingy roadside restaurant: foam booths with stuffing pouring out, tables scarred by ancient coffee cup rings, and mahogany brown coffee mugs that scream “1970s kitchen.”

Even better, the floor and wall had a mac and cheese yellow color, but you couldn’t tell if it was from cigarettes or bad taste. Omar glances at Jasper with a hint of disgust in his eyes.

“Dad… what the Hell are we going to do here? Does this place even have wifi?”

He points around the room and is greeted with more questions than answers. The place looked as if it hadn’t seen a good cleaning since it opened 50 some odd years ago.

Jasper sighs and scans the room. “We’re going to enjoy breakfast, and then we’ll figure it out.”

A waitress holding a plate of undercooked eggs struts by their table. Jasper scrunches his nose as he sees a hair on the plate. “Well… attempt to.”

Omar shakes his head.  “How can you be so relaxed about this?! We almost died! And the car did die!”

“Because we crashed my crappy car and not my Vette’.” says Jasper with a smile. He continues. “Far as I’m concerned, we did ourselves a favor. I’ll get a new car, you’ll get breakfast, and we’ll be fine.”

Omar shifts from side to side, hoping that it will level out his frustration and the chair spring jumping up his ass. No dice.

“We’ll be fine? – we’ll be fine? We don’t have a fucking car!” shouts Omar.

A nearby booth swivels, revealing a man with a beer belly straining against a T-shirt with an arrow pointing to his face that says, “Please, sit here.”

He clears his throat, his gaze settling on Omar. “This here’s a family place, son.” He says while pointing down to his greasy table. The “F” in the family hung in the air like smoke around a fire.

The man’s wife, sporting a shirt that screams, “Yoga is for yuppies,” looks up from her plate, her expression mirroring his disapproval.

The man continues, “Watch your language, please. There’s ladies here.” He raises his eyebrows to cement his point and puts his arm around his wife, who scowls down at her coffee.

Jasper lowers his eyes and offers a placating smile. “This generation, I’m telling you… no respect.” He smiles easily at the stranger. “Apologies, sir, we’ll watch our language, won’t we, Omar?”

Omar raises his eyebrows and squeaks out, “sor…sorry sir.”

The man grunts, seemingly mollified. “That’s better.”

The man turns back to his plate. Omar rubs his temples, having never quite appreciated how likable his father was. Jasper turns back to Omar, stares straight at his son, and slips out nine words loud enough for the idiot to hear.

“Man, this place has a bunch of fucking assholes.”

The idiot man spits out his coffee, throws money on the table, and leaves the wooden floorboards wheezing underneath while muttering something about a family establishment.

Silence. Across the table, Omar leans back in his seat and feels an unusual feeling coming from his cheeks: a smile growing across his face. That was the most honest interaction he had had with his father in years and makes him start to question what he had been missing all this time. But the moment, although pleasant, was interrupted by a familiar feeling… panic. Omar rubs his temples once more and silently questions if he’s going to be late on the first day of work.

“Dad, you still didn’t say how we’re gonna get a car,”  says Omar, his head turning towards the parking lot. “We can’t just take one.”

Jasper nervously fiddles his fingers.

“Shit, this ain’t no big deal, I’m going to call triple A, and we’ll be back on the road in no time. They’ll take us to a rental.”

“Rent from where? The cows? We’re about five miles past the middle of nowhere!” says Omar.

“There’s always a somewhere in nowhere,” Jasper assures, his eyes drifting towards the suitcase. They were steely, yet sad, knowing the news he was about to share. He scratches underneath his nose, a nervous habit and coughs.

Omar rolls his eyes once more.

“Hey – uh – can you hand me my suitcase?” Jasper says with a bit of uneasiness and coughs again.

Omar stops his eye roll and glances at the suitcase beside him. Inside, he can’t shake the feeling that something is off. His father, among many things, was certainly not a suitcase guy. Far from it – his sweatpants wouldn’t allow him the luxury.  Omar frowns and hands Jasper the suitcase, wondering what is inside.

“You alright?” says Omar.

Jasper nods and sighs.

“Fine… just a..uhhh.. flair up.” He says with a smile he hopes will disarm.

Jasper strums his fingers along the table, and Omar, not believing him, feels a knot growing in his stomach.

Jasper coughs again. Omar leans closer.

“So umm… listen. I know life has been hard lately- and we haven’t exactly  been close – but there’s something I need to tell you.” Jasper says between coughs.

Omar shifts from side to side, hoping that it would diffuse whatever was about to happen. “This is going to be hard,” Jasper mumbles to himself, looking down, then straightens back up. “Son… ah– well – there really isn’t an easy way to say this, so I’m going to come out and say it, and please don’t make a scene.”

Omar feels his hair bristle. He hadn’t known his father to be the serious type, and everything had been so unusual. He leans over the table causing it to creak.

Jasper clears his throat like he has a big pill he needs to swallow. Finally, they tumble out, one word-bomb at a time. “I have cancer.” They sail across the table and hit Omar in the face.

Omar jolts back, the breath whooshing out of him in a single, surprised exhale. It hit him like a physical blow, like a sucker punch to the gut that doubled him over. The anger, the years of built-up resentment, evaporates in the heat of that single word… “cancer.” He was reminded of an unfortunate truth he knew so well: mortality. The only assurance life gives you.

For the first time in a long time, he saw his father was not the imposing figure he’d built him up to be but was, in fact, the opposite. A flawed human. A doomed Human. A human-human. Time slows down as Omar sees his father for what feels like the first time.

He notices how his face seems to be a little gaunter; his skin weathered. He sees how his eyes are a tad more sunken and how his shirt seems to dangle off his bones. Jasper was objectively skinnier than before and aged like a two-term president, with fading gray hair. Then, a frustrating thought wormed its way to smack dab in the center of his brain. How had he not seen what was right in front of him? How could he have two eyes yet be so blind? Unfortunately for Omar, some questions don’t have answers.

Shame burns a hot coal in Omar’s chest as he takes a deep breath while his mind races. Inside his head, a blocked-out memory resurfaces, and he rubs his temples hard as it starts to play.

A little over five years ago, Omar lost his mother, and Jasper lost his wife to cancer. Even more so, Jasper and Omar lost their relationship with each other.

Instead of the loss of a loved one bringing the family closer together, it pulled them apart like a cheaply made dog toy. Grief, the monster that lived inside them both had so much influence that they both became withdrawn in their own ways. Jasper handled grief by trying to conquer his bucket list, no matter how crazy the request. He lived his life like the riders who promote energy drinks: fast and furious. He was scared into action and didn’t have time to slow down.

Omar, on the other hand, handled grief by turning to drugs, hoping a distraction would subdue the pain. So slowly, he numbed himself, hoping he wouldn’t feel. But no matter the drug, he still couldn’t escape his feelings. Like a weed, they only continued to grow.

Now that both of the Watson men were in their manic and depressive state, an argument would ensue and blow their relationship up like a powder keg.

Jasper caught Omar doing drugs in his house, and the fight broke out. Unspoken sorrow and words laced with venom flew like a thousand arrows blocking out the sun. But it wasn’t about the drugs; it was about the grief. The men accusing each other of not taking it seriously. And after a few more regretful words, Omar found himself with the commitment of fuck you, I’ll never speak to you again and stormed out of his father’s life.  Omar remembered the slam of the door, the finality of it, the echo that lingered for far too long.

Omar’s throat tightens. The anger, the years of built-up walls, crumble under the weight of a single truth: his father was a man, not a monument—a flawed, aging human facing his own mortality. And somewhere, beneath the layers of resentment, a sliver of a forgotten connection flickers, faint but persistent.

The diner snaps into focus. A waitress drops scrambled eggs at the next table, the glass plate bouncing off the wood surface.

“I’m… I’m sorry. How bad is it?” Omar asks, struggling to steady his voice.

Jasper looks down, a deep frown etching his face.

“Stage 4.”

Silence hangs thick in the air, heavy enough to slice with a butterknife. Omar’s heart pounds, each beat amplifying the turmoil within.

“How much time you got left?” Omar finally asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jasper stares into his coffee cup, seeing more than just his reflection.

“We’ll see.”

Omar shivers. Jasper averts his gaze.

Around them, the once-bustling diner falls eerily still, at least in the world of the Watson men. Jasper reaches across the chair, hoisting up a black suitcase; the gold buckles flash brightly against Omar’s brown face.

“Now that I’m faced, or rather reminded, that my time is coming to an end, there’s really only one matter that’s important,” Jasper begins.

Life buzzes on around them. The other diner people were living their lives. Somewhere a lady was mentally bitching out a waitress for not filling up her coffee cup in time. In the bathroom, a man pisses on the floor and walks away like it was nothing. Yet, just a few tables over, two lives were crashing. It made Omar think about how the world is blissfully unaware.

“I don’t think I’ve been a good father to you,” Jasper admits.

Omar hugs himself, trying to squeeze out the surge of emotions.

“And now that you’re moving away—”

“Don’t you think you could’ve told me that before I decided to move across the country?” Omar erupts.

“Don’t you think you could have called me once during the past five years?” Jasper retorts.

Jasper looks down at the table, swallowing his anger. He sighs and regains his composure. “Hold on, let me finish. I know I haven’t always been there when you needed me. And I know I’ve been hard on you, but I want you to know the only thing I have ever unconditionally loved is you.”

Omar fights back tears, a voice inside urging him to “Remain calm.” But how can one zen out at a time like this? Jasper continues.

“And I honestly have a hard time expressing myself. I don’t know why, but… it’s hard for me to show my true emotions. I try to put on a nice, easy-going face… most of the time. But it kills me that I could have been so much better. Anyway, I wanted to write you some letters on everything I never said but should have said… so you can have them after I’m gone.”

A fan hums overhead, the only sound breaking the heavy silence.

“No matter where you go in life, these letters will help you find your treasure, and believe me, there is great treasure to be found in this life.”

Omar’s face twists in confusion. Treasure? Who was this man?

Jasper unbuckles the suitcase and pulls out the first letter. The paper is an old beige color, as if it had been hiding in secret for years, waiting to come into the world. In the center are the initials J.W. with a red wax stamp.

“There are five letters total, and I’d like to give you one each day of the trip. I know this is heavy, but please allow me this last pleasure. It’s a dying man’s wish.”

Omar clears his throat, hoping it will distract from the tear slowly rolling down his cheek. But it doesn’t work. Instead, he feels his world lighting on fire, and he desperately needs to cool down.

“Excuse me; I’ll be right back.” Omar stands up and makes a b-line for the bathroom.  Jasper watches and hopes he didn’t say anything wrong.

The bathroom was covered in tile and had all the charm of a men’s room that’s never been cleaned. Curly hairs waited in urinals, the floor was sticky, and toilet paper was nowhere to be found. Perhaps that’s why the gas station attendant looked so angry.

There, he stared into the mirror and released a dam. Thirty years of unresolved issues, seeing the light for the first time. Inside his head, the diner spun in circles. He had never seen his father so vulnerable before. Growing up, he was the spitting image of strength, with a hardened face and rock-like emotions. Yet, Omar couldn’t escape the fact that even the strongest succumbed. And they have every time. He ran the water to mute out the sounds of him crying. After a spell, a loud fart behind the stall reminded Omar that the space was not private and it was probably a good time to go.

Wiping the tears from his eyes and the snot from his nose, Omar returns to the table and plops his face in his hands. “Are you ok?” Says Jasper over a cup of coffee.

“I’m fine, just allergies.”

“Hell of a thing to have at a gas station.” Says Jasper, hoping his joke was perceived only as that, and he coughs once more.

Then Jasper swallows and puts his hand on Omar’s shoulder. “Why don’t you read the first letter?”

He slides it across the table so as not to really give a choice. Reluctantly, Omar picks it up, peels back the thick wax stamp, sighs, and then begins reading.

Omar,

By now, you know the truth. I am sick and don’t have long for this world. And when you’re sick and reminded of your mortality, you’re reminded of the gift life really is. You’re reminded that any day can be your last day. You’re reminded of the people and places that were important to you. You’re reminded of the value of a moment and reminded how quickly it slips into a memory.

 I have so much to say to you that I struggle to say it.

 Do you know the saying, “Words can’t express what you mean to me?” I think it’s wrong. What they really mean is, “I love you more than words,” and for me, it’s true.

Now, I don’t want a pity party because who loves a downer? But the silver lining is death has given me perhaps life’s greatest blessing… clarity. In other words, I can see clearly for the first time even if the rain isn’t gone.

I know that our relationship hasn’t always been the best. And for that, I apologize. But know this truth: You’re my son. My friend. My legacy. I love you, and I always have. And it’s why I wanted to come on this trip. Because I have so much to teach you and so little time left. And even though it may sound hokey, I want to dedicate the end of my life to something important: You.

Call it maybe the pain meds they gave me. Call it the death-given-hope, but I believe life is ultimately one thing: A treasure hunt. And it’s on you to discover your treasure.

 In these letters, I hope to teach you everything you need to find it. And when I’m gone, I hope you will find the treasure that I have left you.

 So where does X mark the spot? Well, the first tool you need to discover treasure in any story is a compass. Fortunately, you were born with one, and its arrow is energy.

You see, son, you have an internal compass that points to the inescapable force of energy. It’s on you to discover what pulls you forward and what makes you feel alive.

Energy, like all energy, can’t be seen but can rather be felt. And the way you use your compass is to notice the moments when time moves slow. To notice the moments where minutes become hours. To notice what the activities that you can’t help yourself from doing.

 In short, your job is to notice. To observe your life. And to not view life in the rearview like I have, but rather the windshield, always looking forward. So pay attention to your compass because it’s only when you’re on the right track that you can find your treasure.

 I love you and am proud of you very much.

Your father,

 -Jasper.

Omar neatly folds the letter in half and tucks it back into the envelope with delicate precision, unsure how to act after being brain-bombed.  He half-expects to see his thoughts oozing out as pink goo on the table.

He gazes across the restaurant, deliberately avoiding Jasper’s eyes. Jasper, despite everything, drinks his Coke as if it were just another Saturday. After a moment, Omar regains his composure. Jasper holds his breath, locking his gaze on Omar’s face. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, threatening to suffocate them both. In Omar’s eyes, Jasper sees a storm brewing—a flicker of hesitant trust battling the dark clouds of past disappointments.

Omar shifts in his chair, his breath catching, betraying the turmoil within. His body, tense and coiled like a spring, screams for release. Yet, with a slow, deliberate exhale, he forces himself to remain calm.

“The letter,” Omar begins, his voice rough with unspoken emotions. “It’s… it’s a lot.” Each word tumbles out, heavy with the weight of the news dragging him down.

Jasper’s shoulders slump, a touch of sadness crossing his face. He understood. Vulnerability wasn’t their strong suit.

“And everything’s been a lot lately,” Omar continues, his voice barely a whisper. He avoids Jasper’s gaze, focusing instead on the worn tabletop, a sudden heat flooding his cheeks.

“But,” he starts, then stops. The word hangs in the air, a bridge between their fractured past and uncertain future.

He clears his throat, the sound grating in the silence. “I’m here,” he finally says, pausing before continuing, “For the ride.”

A heavy silence descends again, broken only by the soft clinking of a spoon against a ceramic cup. Omar stares down at his hands, a strange sensation twisting in his gut. It isn’t quite regret but the dull ache of missed opportunities.

“Thanks for the letter,” he mumbles, the words barely audible. “It means…a lot.” Even the simplest expression of gratitude feels awkward on his tongue.

Jasper nods. “No problem.

They finish their meals in silence, tip the waitress, and saunter towards the front, ready to make a plan when they see the leprechaun-looking man, now accompanied by a gang of equally peculiar friends.

Five grubby-faced men and women, dressed in caps reminiscent of the 1930s, encircle the cashier like a pack of hungry wolves. The Leprechaun Man shouts at the wide-eyed gas station attendant, “You’re going to pay me, or the boys are going to give you some trouble,” sliding his tongue over his gold tooth.

Bob crosses his arms, a disapproving smirk on his face. “I said it once, and I’ll say it again – get the hell out of my…” But before he could finish, one of the leprechauns swings a mini-sized bat, obliterating a box of PayDays and sending them flying.

“Now that’s one hell of a pay-day,” Jasper mumbles.

Omar covers his mouth, focusing on Bob, who is turning a volcano shade of red as he glares at the little bits of peanuts rolling on the ground.

“You better be cleaning that shit up, BUB!” Volcano Bob erupts.

“Pipe down, Jr!” the Leprechaun Man retorts.

Bob’s skin turns ghost white.

Jasper turns to Omar, “Call a man Bub and Jr. … that’s worse than a motherfucker.”

Omar’s eyes widen as he scans the destruction. To the left, the sound of shattering glass cracks through the air as one of the Leprechaun Man’s goons sends the gumball machine flying. A rogue purple gumball rolls to a stop near Jasper, who promptly scoops it up and pops it into his mouth.

“Dad?!” Omar yells.

“What… Five-second rule,” Jasper replies nonchalantly, adding, “I wish they’d hit that fuckin’ Coke machine.”

As if on cue, one of the leprechaun’s goons lights up as if he just heard the best idea in the entire world, and moments later, the vending machine crashes to the floor, scattering soda bottles everywhere. Jasper quickly snatches one up.

“The universe provides!” says Jasper. Bob fixates on the Coke in Jasper’s hand, his eyes focusing like a homing missile.

“You better be paying for that, JR!”

Jasper feistily turns to the cashier. “Motherfucker, don’t call me JR!… JR!”

Bob is so angry he’s shaking. He reaches for the old phone hanging on the wall. “I’m calling the cops, man!” Bob cries, sounding like a hippie losing his mind.

“Uh-oh, we gotta get out of here!” says Jasper.

“Well, where are we going to go, Dad?!”

“Beats me, let’s just get the fuck outside.”

Omar pushes the door open and fixates on the Leprechaun gang. They are still in the gas station, pushing the aisles over, sending candy flying every which way. Omar feels bad for the janitor, who is probably also Bob.

After a bit, the door flies open, and Omar can hear the leprechaun-looking man shouting, “Move! Move! Move!” like some kind of fucked-up drill sergeant.

As quickly as they’d appeared, they disappear. The gang makes their way outside to a white van with the engine humming.

“Dad, they’re calling the cops!” Omar’s voice trembles.

Omar casts one last glance at Bob, whose phone is glued to his ear, before noticing Jasper making eye contact with the Leprechaun Man.

“Hey, man – can we get a ride with you?” says Jasper.

The Leprechaun Man waves towards the van, urging them to hurry. Jasper pulls Omar towards the van.

“But… but…” Omar stutters.

“Just get in the van!” Jasper insists, hoisting Omar up. The van peels out of the gas station and makes for the road while Bob runs out, shaking his fist.

 

This is a chapter from my book; please, like, comment, share and let me know what you think!