That little station has been there at least since I was nineteen. I can remember it bein' there then, when I first started runnin' this road from home. As many times as I've been past it in thirty years or so, I only stopped a couple times. I can remember it bein' closed for a year or two at a time. Not really typical for an intestate exit- just this one little station, strugglin', I guess, to stay in business. Nothin' else but this station. A small building, really steep roof. Shape and dimensions that would look more at home on somebody's little lot down by the Lake. They didn't sell beer, and the gas was never particularly cheap. Maybe that played into it- me almost never stoppin'. Others...
So a game plan was agreed upon: I would gather up things and head that way- the longest leg, but nearly all highway. The Middle One would have the shorter, but slower leg- Main Street West, past New Circle, the old Coca-Cola Plant, the Detention Center. The road would narrow from four lanes to two. City would surrender to country: fields, barns, old and older homes, dry-stack stone walls and wood plank fences. Not a bad ride.
I reach our shared destination first. A right at the top of the ramp, another at the solitary caution light, then down the slight grade and into the lot. It looks kinda dark, but the lights over the pumps are burnin' and there's an older Buick pulled along side, the driver's door open and a Big Guy leanin' against the front of the car, his arms folded tight across his chest. I continue straight across the lot, wheel a sharp one-eighty, and back my car to the edge of the asphalt. I shut the engine off and turn the radio down a little. Checkin' the the time on my phone: I'm a little early. Good.
I get out and head toward the store, get a pop or somethin', lookin' in my wallet as I walk. See how close I am to broke. It ain't until I've passed the car and the pumps that I lift my head and see the hand-written paper sign taped to the inside of the glass and wrought iron door, (a door whose obvious first purpose is to keep things out, not let things in). "Closed". Now things are beginnin' to seem a little strange. I turn and head back toward my car, and then realize the Big Guy guy ain't alone. A couple brown boy kids, maybe five years old, pop from the back seat as a back door swngs open, and begin to pogo around the car as if they had springs on their feet. Giant kid smiles across their faces.
I make my way on across the lot to my car, climb back in and watch the scene of miniature chaos. The Big Guy is clearly not havin' the same experience as the two Little Ones. There is someone else in the front seat of his car, but I can't see clearly. After a few minutes, the Big Guy walks one of the Little Ones over near the dumpster off to my left. There's a ragged loveseat alongside the dumpster, ditched by someone who I reckon didn't feel like payin' for garbage pickup. I'm thinkin' that this Little One musta had to take a pee. Broke down with little kids in tow. That sucks.
After the Big Guy and the Little One start back to their car, I get out and head back that way.
"Hey Man, you outta gas? I'm meetin' one of my sons here any time now, but after that, I can go to the next exit and bring you back some fuel..."
"No, but thanks. Her Dad is supposed to be comin' with some gas. But thanks." Must be the other person in the car.
"Yeah, outta gas when the kids are with you, that stinks. Just wanted to ask ya and see if somebody was comin'." I'm feelin' kinda awkward now. The Big Guy was already annoyed, now he seems a little embarrassed, and I'm bettin' he ain't embarrassed very often by somebody like me.
"Yeah. Thanks."
I head back to my car. I turn and lean against the driver's door, in an effort to look relaxed, tryin' not to show my discomfort. Another car turns onto the lot. My Middle Kid. He pulls straight down next to me. "Sorry I'm late, Pops. Got caught up in somethin' and lost track of time."
"No big deal. Ain't been here no more than ten minutes, or so."
I reach through the window, grab his bag of stuff, and pass it to 'em. He drops it in the passenger's seat and steps out.
We stand leanin' against our respective rides and he tells me about how he's thinkin' about quittin' one of his two jobs because he's workin' his ass off and they're a hateful bunch. I listen, then tell him that if he ain't likin' it, quit, and that I think he's doin' too much anyway- two jobs on top of a full plate in school... He says he's probably gonna give 'em notice, but that he's already looked into a job to replace that one and it looks like he's in.
I used to tell my kids what to do. Now, I just listen, and maybe give a little advice, encouragement. After which they usually tell me what they have already decided to do, and I nod slowly and try and look wise. They're movin' away from me and there ain't nothin' I can do but watch.
Another car, a nice SUV, pulls into the lot, circles, and stops at the pumps opposite the Big Guy. The Middle One is still tellin' me about his new job prospects and I'm lookin' over his right shoulder as SUV Guy messes around at the pump for a few seconds, then begins to pump gas into his tank. I am feelin' really confused...
"Hey Man- I thought this station was closed..."
"Yeah, but I think if you have plastic, you can still get gas," explains the Middle One.
"Apparently."
Weird. The Middle One continues his story and SUV Guy returns the hose to its restin' place, taps a couple buttons, then takes his receipt, climbs in and bolts for the highway, never once acknowledgin' the presence of the Big Guy, the Little Ones, or Her. Before SUV Guy can get outta sight, a fairly new pickup turns in and drives up to the pumps. Pretty damn busy for a gas station that can't decide if it's open or closed. A middle-aged, bearded man steps out and begins talkin' to the Big Guy, while liftin' a gas can from the bed of his truck. His passenger, another middle-aged man, but clean-shaven, thinner than the Bearded Man, exits the truck and joins the others as they go about the business of dumpin' gas into the old car. Wow. Even brought a funnel.
The passenger's side door of the old car swings open. A heavy-set girl steps out beside the car, and stands against the open door, a small baby in the crook of her left arm. This must be Her. Bearded Man walks over and begins to make over the baby, while the other two finish up with the gas can. A few minutes later, the Big Guy shoos the two Little Ones and Her back into the car while goodbyes and thank yous are exchanged. Both vehicles pull from under the light of the pumps and turn out onto the road, East.
"Well Pops, I hate to rush off, but I got a big day tomorrow-classes early, then workin' 'til ten."
"Yeah, sure. No big deal, Mister. Good to see ya, even if for just a little bit."
"Thanks for bringin' my stuff."
"Ain't nuthin', Son. A nice night. A nice ride. You know all you gotta do is call..."
Time stops for an instant, then switches back on as the Middle One reaches for his door handle.
"Yeah, yeah, you get on back, Son. I gotta be gettin' back, too." He drops behind the wheel and I ease his door closed.
"Yep, five o'clock comes mighty early..."
"Yeah, at five o'clock."
"Funny. You're funny, Son!" We're both smilin'. I'm wonderin' if my smile looks a little sad to him, like his does to me.
Lights and sound. I look up. Another car? Ya gotta be jokin'. A maroon car loops into the lot and steers between the pumps and the shuttered building, stops for only a second, then comtinues its arc around the pumps, stoppin' near the rear of the Middle One's car. Through the open passenger's window, I can see a skinny girl leanin' across the seat.
"Is this station open?" I start in her direction. (My hearin' sucks.)
"I gotta go, Pops..." I glance back: backup lights.
"Be careful, Son."
Back to Skinny Girl: "Well, kinda. Store's closed, but I think if you got plastic, you can still pump gas."
The Middle One's car begins to move. "Bye, Pops..."
"Bye, Son..." Dissatisfied.
"I don't have any cards, but I have some money."
"You gonna be able to make it to the next exit, or are ya 'bout out?" I'm a couple steps closer. In the dim light, Skinny Girl looks to be in her mid-twenties. Not pretty, not ugly. Plain. Brown-headed, probably cut the same way since high school.
"No." She seems anxious. The Middle One's car is now facin' the road.
"Where you headin'?"
"Georgetown." That ain't but about fifteen miles or so on down the highway.
"I got a card. I reckon I can pump ya a little gas to get ya that far."
"Oh please! I have some money!"
I walk the last few steps to the pumps as the Skinny Girl makes a second loop to bring her car back around alongside the pumps again. My wallet is out and I pull out my debit card.
Skinny Girl is rattlin': "I can pay you! I've got some money!"
I focus on the task at hand. "No big deal. Don't worry 'bout it." Pump on, gas cap off, hose in...
The Middle One swings near the pumps and stops: "I love you, Pops."
I look up. "I love you, too, Son."
He pulls away and heads to the East. In the direction of his life. Away from me. I glance back at the numbers on the pump, rolling.
"See? Here's two dollars... and here's fifty more cents..." She continues to rifle through her purse.
"Forget it. I'm only gonna pump five dollars worth. That'll get you to Georgetown."
"My Momma's in Georgetown. I need to get to my Momma's before my ex-husband finds me. Please, take this money..."
"Nope."
"I don't know what to say..." Her voice has changed somehow.
I look up. Crap, she's cryin'. I look away. I won't look at her again.
"You don't have to say nuthin'. Everybody needs a little help every now and then. I have. Don't say nuthin..."
Five dollars worth. That don't take long no more. I button up the gas cap and the pump.
"You better get goin'." I turn and begin to walk across the lot to my car.
"I don't know what to say..."
"Go on. And be careful."
I hear the Skinny Girl's car fire up and move away. When I reach my car I turn and see her top the grade, turn left, then right, onto the interstate ramp, East. Away from me. I stand beside my car for a minute. The key in the ignition, the radio playin'. It's cool. Nice. I get in my car, head across the viaduct. One left turn drops me down the ramp toward home, West. I reach toward the dash and turn the radio up.
Fish
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All comments welcome. Criticisms and opposing viewpoints extremely welcome. Fish