“I used to be a big star.”

The gas station clerk looked up from scanning the items on the counter at the scruffy weirdo with dirt on his face, gave him a once-over, nodded, and went back to scanning the three Yuengling tallboys and the pack of Pall Mall cigarettes.

“Uh-huh.”

The clerk’s reply wasn’t dismissive or genuinely involved. It was a middle of the road, completely indifferent “uh-huh,” the kind that really said “Our relationship ends after you pay for these items.”

“Yeah, I was a musician. Lived in Chicago. Got addicted to coke. Wife left me. Took the kids. Band broke up. After that, I went out into the back and burned the shit out of all our old records. Never made any payments and got everything I had rep...

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