Wicked Americana by Sacha Bissonnette
In “Wicked Americana,” Sasha Bissonnette invites readers to an intersection—at a literal gas station in Minnesota, but also at the metaphorical point of synchronicity between being a child and being a parent. In this remarkable flash fiction, Bissonnette combines tender moments of meaning with cold impersonal spaces. He writes three distinct versions of a self: a child, a kid who is becoming an adult, and a parent. How will this narrator learn to nurture these three selves, as well as their own child, the extension of both themself and their absent mother? The act of loving is buried in the past, deep in American soil. Through these voices and striking sentence-level details, readers can connect with this narrator—we watch them pluck forgiveness from the past and breathe it into the present. —CRAFT
I told my mom I loved her at a gas station in Minnesota but I’m not sure she heard. The cashier must’ve been stocking drinks or something so it felt like it was just me and her in there. This was the most space we’d shared in years and I thought she’d have so much to say but she spoke slowly, dragging her every word.
“How old are you now?”
“Thirteen.”
I lied. I was twelve.
She asked me if I could buy her some beef jerky. “I need to coat my stomach.” I didn’t know what any of that meant. I pictured a small little jacket wrapped around her midsection, or maybe a layer of paint. Paint, that’s probably what it was. I reached into my pocket to grab the bills. My hands were so clammy they stuck to me when I tried to hand them over.
It’s like she knew my father had given me money. He’d never handed me three bills before, only the change he kept in the cupholder in the car. He’d let me run to the store with it and buy freezies or an assortment of five-cent candies. When he opened his wallet he paused. He was a big goofy guy, but not right then. He grabbed me by the neck, pulled me in close, and kissed me next to my ear. “Go on in, I’m right outside if you need me.”
Her makeup was thick, glued to her face like she had slept in it. “Why is your dad keeping your hair like this, doesn’t he have any sense of style anymore? Your dad was hot back in the day.” She licked both her thumbs and slicked the curls out of my eyes and out from around my temples. I could smell her breath, it was strong but sweet and all around me. She kept fixing her wig too, every few seconds.
Before she left I said I love you. But my voice was so little, so faint and shaking that I’m not sure she could hear me.
The last time I saw my mother, before she fell off the map, was at a diner. Her hair was long and blond. She had gotten wind that I graduated summa cum laude. My dad never stopped texting her updates. I ordered a steak and washed it down with a Bloody Mary. I’d like to say something great came from our meetup at the neon-lit spot off the interstate and that when she said sorry her makeup-rich tears fell melodramatically into her mac and cheese, but nah, that’s a fairy tale and this is America and sad stories like ours are what make up the fabric of the flag. Instead I told her she looked nice because, in a way, she did.
I pulled into that same gas station today.
I’m not around here much anymore, but my tank is low, below empty. I park and turn around to look at my screaming daughter. One and a half. Her cheeks are blotchy red and covered in spit. Her hair is standing on all ends, shot out in every direction. I don’t know what to do with her when she screams this loud, for this long. So I get out. I need to catch my breath. Fuck. Maybe call someone. I call my wife. No answer. Yes. Her big meeting. She’ll hate to see the missed call. I need to listen more. Like hear her. I get into the back seat with the tiny siren. Undo my cuffs. My top button. Deep breath.
Okay. Please let this work.
I lick both thumbs. One at a time. Like her. Like she did. I start patting her hair down. Slowly. With some sort of method like I’ve done it before. She quiets. I breathe out. I feel my shoulders drop. My neck loosen. Jaw unclench. My wife calls back. She must’ve seen my frantic texts. I ignore her. She had a big meeting. I finally get out to pump the gas. Thanks, Mom.
“I love you,” I say under my breath. Thanks. And I think she always looked so beautiful without the wig.
SACHA BISSONNETTE is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He is a reader for Wigleaf TOP 50. His fiction has appeared in Witness, Wigleaf, SmokeLong Quarterly, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Terrain, Ghost Parachute, The NoSleep Podcast, and elsewhere. He is currently working on a short fiction collection as well as a comic book adaptation of one of his short stories. His projects are powered by the Canada Council for the Arts, Ontario Arts Council, and the City of Ottawa. He has been nominated for several awards including the Pushcart Prize twice and Best Small Fictions thrice. He was selected for the 2024 Sundress Publications Residency and was the winner of the 2024 Faulkner Gulf Coast Residency. Find him on Twitter @sjohnb9.
Featured image by Dyana Wing So, courtesy of Unsplash.
