So this started out as a poem and then I decided to change it around a bit and make it a short story, which I have never written before. It's not done by any means, but I've been really busy lately and I'm not sure when I'll get around to finishing it so I figured I'll put it up just for the heck of it. So, without further adieu here's the start of my story...
I met Steve at the Irving gas station, just standing there smoking a butt beneath his fading green hat in the mid April drizzle, an Adam's Tree Service truck just behind and the air pump in front.
My tires thrive on air pumps and I feed them through Sunoco's at least once a week because old rubber on a rusty, fading car gets hungry fast.
Today, my favorite pump was blocked by road work and the people that come with it. I grudgingly crawled along the torn up, one lane stretch while avoiding the cones that cut me off from my tires' life line, all the while cursing each bump in the road that added insult to my injured tires. And I know that air is cheap anywhere, or at least it is for now. It's just that cheap air that's set off from the world, and all the people that are in it, comes from Sunoco, so they get at least a dollar a week out of me.
Irving, on the other hand, digs deeper into the wallet of this broke college kid: upwards of 20 bucks a week and a rewards member, though I have yet to reap the benefits of the latter. Even still, Irving is my vendor of choice for the fossil fuels. Their cheap gas is the main course for ol' BessyRu because if she dies on my way back to school, she can die knowing that less of my money has been wasted in her hypothetically useless tank. A few months back, I did notice an air pump there but until today, I had dismissed the idea. Irving may have cheap gas but its strategic location is not my favorite: multiple lanes of traffic next to a four way intersection that's right off a highway, and let's not forget all the people that come with that mess.
But one of my front tires is down to 10 and two of the others were grumbling on my way to church this morning so I'm forced to rattle on over to Irving instead of letting the poor things starve. I pull into one of the parking spots next to the Irving air machine, being careful not to hit the guy with the green baseball hat that just ran to his truck with a gas container.
This pump is an island. It's situated between the diesel pumps and the regular pumps, which are book ended on one side by my favorite spot, the one that's furthest away from the other cars and the people that are in them. As I'm digging around for quarters, a couple of these people pull up on the other side of the unfamiliar machine and, rather than make obligatory small talk ending in some socially expected graciousness, I decide to wait it out in the car.
That's when I notice him.
It seemed he had already noticed me, though I'm not sure why. It might have been my unusually small stature that doesn't quite belong on the ground between a tire and an air pump. It might have been that I resembled someone he once knew and cared about. It might have even been my plates, which identify me as being originally from Massachusetts.
Massachusetts.
The great state whose name and troubles have been splattered all over the news since some sick yet pitiable person decided to bring about horrifying explosions and war-like chaos during the marathon that draws multitudes every year. Driving around with Massachusetts plates this week has been like walking around school with a post it on my forehead saying that a relative died: The sorry eyes, the patronizing smiles, the encouraging looks, and knowing what's going on in the minds of the people that go with all of that.
But no matter why he noticed me, there he was. Standing in front of the car, but just a bit off to my right so it wasn't completely awkward. Just for good measure, I stare out the left window while making faces as if I was trying to remember something important. As for what could be so important in the life of a college kid that she can't even step out of her car, which been parked for two minutes at this point, I really couldn't tell you.
This is when I realize that the people next to me are just using the other air machine space as a parking spot, probably so they can go in and get a pack of cigarettes or some lotto tickets or a donut. I dismiss the non-existent thoughts that, just moments ago, were causing my theatrical anxiety as I grab four quarters to feed the machine with.
*This is based on a true story, some names and situations have been changed/altered/enhanced with creative license or whatnot.
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