New Jersey and You

By Austin Grisham

“Officer, what you mean I can’t pump my own gas?” The shorter man scowled up from his car, biting off his words. The neon sign of the station flickered on and off while the smell of exhaust filled Officer Ortega’s nostrils.

Ortega sighed. “I’m sorry sir, that’s the law in New Jersey,” he firmly told the man. A South Carolina license identified him as “Bill Staunton.”

His first call of the day had been for two guys in a fistfight over a parking spot, the second for two neighbors in a fistfight because one thought the other’s television was too loud. At least this time he’d arrived at the scene before any teeth were lost.

“Well, let me tell you something, the people of South Carolina would never stand for this!” Bill’s southern accent worked its way through as he ground his hands against the steering wheel.

Ortega’s shoulders fell slightly. Man, this is why they call New Jersey the armpit of the nation.

“Well, you don’t got to be here if you don’t want to be!” Bob, the gas station attendant, shook his fist. He’d been the one to call the cops on Bill.

A horn blared from the neighboring stall.

Bob ran over to his new customer. Ortega looked down at the man again. “Do you understand, sir?”

“I guess.” Bill’s eyes were filled with daggers. “You sure got some crazy customs up here.”

“You have no idea.” The officer tipped his hat and headed back to his patrol car. The old cruiser was parked in back of the station. Rounding the corner, he saw his partner Dave in the driver’s seat finishing off his late-morning donut.

“Hey, how’d it go?” Dave licked powdered sugar from his fingers.

“Same old, same old,” Ortega made his way around to the passenger side door.

“I knew we would take care of it!”

“We?”

“Hey, I had to drive.”

Ortega opened the door and glanced between the seats. “What’s that?”

“This?” Dave held up the six-pack of beer with a wry grin. “It was a gift from the owner. He appreciated us making sure that one of his petroleum distribution technicians didn’t get messed with.”

“You know we’re not supposed to accept gifts. Especially alcohol.” Ortega dropped into the seat by his partner.

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Besides, look how much dust is on it. Probably been sitting on the shelf for ages. I’m sure it’ll go bad any day now. Let me check if it’s even any good.” To his partner’s chagrin, Dave cracked a can.

The car filled with the smell of burning embers and smoke.

“What was in there?” Ortega fanned the air in front of his face as his eyes watered.

Neigh! Both officers whirled in their seats. A horse-headed monstrosity stared at them from the back seat. His lower body looked like a goat with scraggly hair and two cleft hooves for feet. He had a man’s muscular arms and hands, and two leathery wings sprung out from either side of his back. They filled the car, blocking out the rear window.

“Is that—” Dave began.

A snort cut him off. “Yes, it is I, the Jersey Devil.”

“I thought you were just an old wives’ tale?” Ortega gaped at him with wide eyes.

“I’ve been stuck in that beer can for long enough to be one.” The devil snorted again.

“What are you going to do to us?” Dave’s voice quavered.

“Oh, nothing to you two. In fact, you get a reward. A wish for the two of you because you let me out.”

Dave’s face lit up. “You mean, like, we could wish for a million dollars?”

“No, it is not that kind of wish. You see I am the Jersey Devil, so it would need to be for the good of the entire state.”

“Could people be allowed to pump their own gas?”

The devil gave him a quizzical look. “I can’t believe an officer of the law would ask me to do something so unsafe.”

The two officers sat in silence for a second. Ortega’s forehead creased as he rubbed his chin.

His gaze wandered to the cars passing by. “Could you fix the state’s highway system?”

“I work fast! I have great power at my disposal!” The devil disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Dave looked out the window idly for a moment. “Ortega. Are we imagining this? Do you think maybe—”

The car filled up again with the smell of ash and the Jersey Devil reappeared. He studied the floor for a second, then spoke. “I tried, but the road system is a mess. The roads have more potholes than the rest of the nation and the toll collector’s union is worse than any demon I’ve ever met!”

Ortega tapped his chin. “How about ending organized crime?”

The devil disappeared again. A moment passed and he was back.

“Can’t do it. I would have to get rid of most of your elected officials, waste disposal, and your police chief as well. It would create too much confusion.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Dave said to his partner.

“Could you maybe do something about the weather?” Ortega looked up to the gray clouds above.

The devil disappeared. He was back in a millisecond.

“All right gentlemen, I clearly cannot fulfill my end of the bargain. I am going back into the can.”

The smell of smoke and embers vanished from the car. Looking down, Dave saw the beer can reseal with a flash and a pop.

“So, we live in a state that even a super-being can’t fix?”

“At least we got job security.”

“Amen to that, brother.”

The radio cracked. “Attention Officer Ortega, we have received a report regarding disturbance of peace. Two men have been involved in a physical altercation regarding the color of paint at a hardware store.”

Ortega sighed. “Let’s go.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Austin Grisham originally hails from Princeton, New Jersey, but happily moved to San Diego, California, a decade and a half ago. He loves the sunshine, taking walks on the beach, and writing entertaining fiction. He has self-published three novels (The James Christianson Chronicles) and seven short stories, all available on Amazon.

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