Rumbling down the Road

Another day at work. Another stretch of my patience. Another four days before I have to go back again.

I'm amazed by the variety of people who come through the doors. Some nice, some not so nice, and some who missed out on a whole lot of time in the woodshed with a parent who might have been able to turn them into something that remotely resembles a decent human being.

We have a quite a following of regulars, a few you could set your watch by. They come in on their way to work for a soda, snack and pack of cigarettes. They come by after work for a six-pack, snack and pack of cigarettes. They wander down the street and back again for a four-pack, and then another, and another until they finally pass out or find peace in their lonely apartment.

They come in to play their “numbers” and check for a rare winning ticket—the “Poor man’s tax”—hope clouding experience as they shell out 2 to 20 dollars a day for the dream of easy riches. They come in the middle of their shift to buy a Lunchable and a bottle of water. They come at our shift change with their fist full of scratchers and rap their cane against the counter because the line backs up behind them and they have to wait to buy another fistful of losers.

They come in work trucks and leave roofing dust and drywall and landscaping debris on the floors and in the bathroom. They come in nice cars and want you to pump their gas with a different excuse every time, but mostly because they don’t want to get the gas smell on them, or maybe because they remember the time when you could sit in your car and have the oil checked, tires filled (for FREE!), and windshields wiped clean while your gas was being pumped.

The kids come in after school in packs, and some try to shoplift, while their school IDs dangle from their necks. Duh! The clueless come in alone and try to buy cigarillos with a speeding ticket or gun permit or college ID and then sent in a buddy, who’s sitting in the car right by the front door, to get it when they get turned away. Couples come in, and you know she’s got a real winner when he lets her pay for everything!

They dig in their pockets for wrinkled dollar bills. They bring in a handful of change from their floorboard—gross. They hand you a hundred dollar bill for a pack of gum and $10 in gas when you only have $30 and change in your drawer. A woman comes in with a covey of kids with stringy hair and dirty faces and buys them a bagful of junk food. She pays for it with her Link card, pays for her gin and cigarettes with cash and puts $3 in her gas tank, if she’s lucky enough to have a car at all.

Soldiers come in from the base to get fountain drinks and chew. A father comes in and buys 2-3 gallons of milk every other day. An embarrassed, young man comes up to the counter asking for condoms. An old man curses and throws several twenties on the counter when he’s asked to come in and prepay for gas after dark. An old woman snarls and demands to talk to the manager when she’s asked to put her scrawled list of lucky numbers on a lottery slip.

A young man flirts with me and calls me his future wife. I quip right back and tell him I’m not ready to settle down. “Been there, done that, got the t-shirt, didn’t fit, took it back.” He howls with laughter and then shorts me the 40 cents he's supposedly getting from his car. Another bellows to his friend on the phone that I’m the most interesting gas station attendant he’s ever known. It wasn't easy, but I restrained myself from shouting down to the other end of the store that it’s my job, not who I am!

A disabled man smiles with pleasure when you remember his birth date, another says a soft ‘thanks’ when you tuck his change in his pocket because it’s hard for him to it with his hooks. A woman gives you a hug when you ask how she’s doing today—just a few months since her mother died. A man asks how you’re feeling today because you were sick for two weeks straight. A woman leaves looking less stressed when you tell her a silly joke. A young man loans you a book he enjoyed reading for a school assignment. Another asks how your book is going.

The Harley riders from the shop down the road are coming in more now that it’s warm enough to ride. They rival the church people in politeness.

I miss the wind in my hair and the sympathetic vibration in my soul from the sound of those engines. I'm almost, but not quite, tempted to find a motorcycle man of my own. (They hold up the bike, find the river roads, and keep most of the bugs off of you.) But not today.

For now, I am quite content to remember and smile.