“I’ve learned to use gas pumps without card readers again, like learning to push eight buttons in succession, on a phone that is not, also, a computer. My favorite pump is on the way home after a longer work day, when a stop means feeling every muscle creak & groan as I pour myself out the driver’s side of my Chevy. I say that, so that you’ll know its not a smaller, foreign model. There is a bit of a drop to the pavement. And if you pull in just right, you can hide there for a second, behind the pump, and pull up your pants. Even at a roadside gas station, one strives to be presentable, within the small confines of an American standard, only known in rural parts. Looking dirty at the end of the day, is a badge of pride. Not such much prior to 9 am. Caked mud on jeans, unwashed hands freckled with earthy stains, hair tousled wildly yet patted into place at the last; sun flushed cheeks. Okay to limp, slightly, unless you’re really old in which case, go all the way to disabled. As long as you can make it from the pump, to the cashier with your wallet, you’ll probably be noticed, sideways, by some guys talking to each other over a truck door. Tonight, I had to wait in line, one strange guy emptying everything that looked remotely like cash, onto the counter, while the cashier piled up ice cream onto a cone, at the creemee window. I didn’t mind the wait, because the anticipation at the end of the day, for a gas fill up, and maybe a beer, and the sparse, almost no-traffic byways over a lesser gap ahead of me, felt good. I knew that if anybody in a hurry moved any closer than four car lengths to my rear, I’d be pulling over. Just before dusk, is not a time to waste. I like to move through it smoothly, unencumbered by the errant thought forms of others, even drift into a slower speed, as needed, to gawk at someone’s wood pile, or junk pile, or arrestingly colorful pot of petunias. Why else work far from home? You’ve got to appreciate the ride. And the strange loveliness of strangers, who remind you of yourself but who are totally ignorant of you. It almost hurts, all the people doing normal things that you monitor on your commute, who have no idea you exist. Some who you could probably love, even cherish, more than anyone you currently know. And maybe that’s why, back around Gaysville, passing Toziers on the hard road, without any dinner companion or legitimate reason to buy fried food, that smell wafting in for one second feels wistful, almost tragic. Once upon a time, it was easy to pull over, and have fun just doing almost nothing, standing in line for something like a fish stick sandwich or a milkshake made with real milk, or chicken-in-a-basket. Mind you, I’ve been vegetarian for over 40 years and did my own animal cemetery as a kid, & created fairs charging pennies to give to the SPCA, so it’s not a fad for me. Still, the lard, and the sizzle, and the picnic tables, and the banality of sitting down for bad food, is nothing to devalue. It’s part of what I long for: that time when I didn’t know anything about what was wrong to consume or get hooked up with. Those were the days, my friend. I thought they would never end. So much so, that any simple reminder that I used to “trust”, rings warmly, like my credit card sliding over the counter to be held in escrow until I return from ol’ pump-o-matic Pegasus. Clanking, humming, stalling, stopping, delivering one more leg of the lost highway, to an aching set of used bones.”
