Melancholy Stations

An ongoing series dedicated to the beauty of the midnight interstate, the pump islands and motor lodges glowing on the horizon like sanctuaries from the chaos of the three o’clock in the morning mind.

Christmas Eve in Kentucky. Sometimes a Waffle House is a home.

South Dakota. He found salvation in a pool of light twenty-three miles east of Rapid City.

Missouri. She had a perpetually pissed-off supervisor who told her to quit digging for her rock bottom.

Alabama. He waited in line behind a man with a pistol butt hanging over the elastic band of his green sweatpants.

Montana. The motel clerk watched a flickering old black-and-white. “What time is checkout?” she asked. The clerk shrugged. “Whenever the hell you feel like it.” She gave him a fake name. No reason except it felt good to lie.

Brooklyn. You could find her near the pump island at the gas station, singing broken torch songs for anyone who might listen.