The sun rose on the beautiful desert landscape, just like it had the day before, and like it would the next day. A city dweller unused to such a site would have been in awe, but to Bud Green, a cashier pulling the graveyard shift at a 24-hour gas station on a lonely stretch of highway outside Las Vegas, it was just another day.
Day after day he sees the same thing, and longs for something different. A lost movie star, a camera crew from one of those "slife-of-life" TV shows, an explosion -- anything.
One nondescript spring day, just after sunrise, he lazily looks up from his sci-fi novel to see a black car kicking up a cloud of dust and heading his way. He notices as it draws near that it's a jet-black Buick Regal Grand National. He watches as it passes the station, wondering at its tinted -- no, at its black windows. "Been ages since I've seen one of those," he muses, before returning to his book.
A few moments later, Bud looks up to see the same car returning to the station from the other direction. Must have seen that "Check Your Gauge" sign the boss put up, he muses, and returns to his book yet again, figuring that the driver will pay at the pump with a debit card like just about everybody else.
A few moments later, he hears tapping at the window of his booth. He looks up from his book, and his mouth falls open in shock at what he sees. Or, that is, at what he doesn't see.
In front of him, just outside his window, he sees assembled an assortment of accessories he would expect to see on or around a female face, but without the face. First is a floating baseball cap. Below the bill of the cap hovers a pair of Ray-Ban shades. A little further down is what appears to be floating lipstick. And just below the shades' earpieces are two stud earrings, floating as if attached to something, but there is nothing there.
Then, while Bud continues to stare, a voice comes from the air, apparently from between the two expanses of lipstick. A voice that sounds like it could be attached to a cute girl.
"Excuse me," the voice says, "but pump number 5 won't accept my card."
Bud stares without registering that someone is speaking to him.
"Hello?" the voice says, as something unseen taps against the booth's plexiglas windows.
"Huh? --Oh, I'm sorry," Bud sputters, snapping out of it, or trying to.
"Pump number 5 won't accept my card," the voice repeats.
"Um, yeah, something's wrong with the card reader," he says. "How much gas do you want?"
"Fill it up, I guess," the voice says.
"I'll need the card," Budsays. "When you finish pumping the gas, you'll have to come back here and sign the charge slip, is all."
The floating accessories turn to face the car, and as they recede he sees, below them, tube socks and white sneakers. But between the accessories and the footwear, nothing. No skin, no clothes.
Bud watches in rapt attention as the hatch over the Regal's gas cap swings open. The gas cap floats out and comes to rest on the trunk lid. The nozzle at pump number 5 floats from its hook, and inserts itself into the gas tank nozzle. Bud's imagination, though, is racing to fill in the blanks, so much so that he forgets to release the pump so his unseen customer can pump her gas.
"Hey!" the voice calls out. "I'm not getting any gas here."
"Sorry," Bud calls out, and releases the pump. His attention wanders again, as he wonders what his unseen customer would look like, if he could actually see her.
The tank stops when the tab hits $20, and the nozzle removes itself from the Regal and returns to its hook on the gas pump. Then the gas cap returns to its rightful place, and the walking, talking accessories return to Bud's booth.
Bud can't believe what he sees, or doesn't see. He knows he wanted something different, but this is just too different to believe. He decides to improvise a little, just to make sure he's not dreaming the whole thing.
"Well?" the voice says. "Aren't you gonna give me the charge slip to sign?"
Thinking quickly, Bud fibs, "Uh, there's a problem with that drawer. You'll have to come around to the door over here."
Bud stares as the accessories float over toward the door on the side of his booth. He grabs a clipboard and a pen and swings the door open, staring at the socks and sneakers as they approach. Holding out the clipboard, he says, "Just sign by the X at the bottom," letting out an unintended gasp when the clipboard floats out of his grasp. The pen does likewise, holding itself against the charge slip and signing the name "Charlotte Hill."
"Charlotte," Bud repeats, hoping for some reaction. "That's a pretty name."
There is no reaction. After signing the name, the pen and clipboard position themselves as if being handed back to him, so he nervously takes them and starts back into the booth.
"Hey!" the voice says. "What about my copy, and my card?!"
"Sorry," Bud says sheepishly, holding the card and bottom copy of the charge slip out towards... empty space. Both are taken from his hand, upon which the charge copy wraps itself around the credit card and they both float about halfway between the headwear and the footwear.
The footwear and accessories walk a few steps away from the booth, stop, and turn back toward Bud. But now Bud is back in the booth, watching his unseen customer.
"Excuse me," the voice says, "but do you have change for a dollar?"
"Uh-huh," Bud replies, dropping four quarters onto the tray on the front of the
cashier's booth and sliding it outward.
"Thought you said that was broken?" the voice says, in a slightly accusatory tone.
Bud is quiet for what seems like ages, trying to come up with an excuse to cover his lie. Finally, he decides to just tell her the truth. "I'm sorry, miss," he says, "but, um, we don't get many, uh, invisible customers out this way. I guess I just wanted to see if my eyes were playing tricks on me."
The unseen customer is silent for a few seconds. Bud hopes she's only letting this all sink in and deciding what to say next. He begins to realize that since he can't see her face, or any other part of her for that matter, she could be doing just about anything.
He imagines her turning around and walking over to his booth, where he'd meet her outside the door and she'd kiss him, poking her tongue into his mouth, and he'd stand there, wrapping his arms aroud this unseen woman and returning her kiss.
Instead, the accessories went over to the soda machine, where the floating quarters deposited themselves into the vending machine. Seconds later, a Pepsi floated out of the machine and proceed to empty itself into... thin air. The clear plastic bottle was open, but the soda was disappearing.
Finally, the bottle launched itself into a recycling bin. Then the Grand National's driver door flew open and quickly closed again. The engine started loudly, as Grand Nationals do, and with much spinning of tires it was off.
Bud watched as the Regal quickly became a black speck in a receding cloud of dust, wishing that he had somehow been able to work his way into that car, speeding down the road of life with an invisible woman at the wheel. Anything had to be better than the graveyard shift at a gas station at the edge of the desert.
In all Bud's daydreaming and staring, he never notices until much later that, along with the charge slip, there's a card. With a phone number, and a name. Charlotte Hill.