The transaction at the pump is a little drama. I swipe my card three times before it works. The machine asks if I want a car wash. No, machine, I want to live.
The numbers start climbing on the pump. $30. $40. $50. I close my eyes and pretend it’s Monopoly money. It’s fine. Everything is fine.
While the gas is pumping, I usually walk inside. This is the best part. The gas station convenience store is a magical land of terrible decisions. I always grab a bag of chips I don’t need.
The Strange Characters
There is always one guy buying a single lottery ticket at 11 p.m. He looks me in the eye with a look that says, “This is my retirement plan.” I nod back like I understand. I don’t.
The cooler doors are always fogged up. I open one and the blast of cold air hits my face like a ghost. I stand there for five seconds just enjoying the free air conditioning. No shame.
I grab a Gatorade because clearly, I am a high-performance athlete after that stressful drive. The cashier barely looks up from his phone. He says, “Anything else?” I say, “No, just the gas.” He grunts. We are now bonded for life.
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