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"You...you...mean..." he stammered, gesturing ineffectively
with the cast on his right arm that had broken against the
Ford's bumper during his express trip from hood to pavement.
"You mean this dump? Are you for real?"
Ding! Ding! The gas pump bell snapped me out of the old man's
past. His intense blank stare warned me that he was unaware
that the tank was starting to overflow. I vaulted out of the
driver's seat and helped the old man yank the still-spurting
nozzle out of the filler neck. It would be child's play to
mop up the scant few gallons of The Detergent Gasoline that
had given me the cleanest sneakers--as well as the cleanest
engine--in town.
The hose writhed in the old man's grasp making one last burst
for freedom, but was overcome and, with a loud staccato clatter,
secured to the pump. There the hose would recover from its
ordeal and wait for its next opportunity to pull itself from
the sun-bleached red pump and spring off into the woods.
The old man peered intently at the faded numbers on the aged
gas pump face. Two small circles of moisture remained where
his nose kissed the glass over the dials with a resounding
Thud!
"Never wore glasses in my life, sonny, and don't aim
to start now. That'll be $70.72. Uh, wait a minute."
THUD!
"Uh, that'll be $10.72."
I fished out a twenty and forked it over. The old man looked
at it, blinked his blank eyes a couple of times and said,
"and 72 cents." I retrieved the bill and replaced
it with a ten and a single. That seemed to be the right combination.
The old man tottered off in the direction of the office for
my change, while I beelined for the Coke machine. I was well
into my second bottle when the old man breezed by me in fine
form on his journey to the office. And, I was starting on
my third by the time he managed to locate the cash register--one
of those huge old affairs with a crank handle on the side.
His palsied fingers danced on the keys for a while, causing
the numbers in the register window to jump up and down like
some grotesque puppet show. He finally found the energy to
press the keys home and the number flags tumbled up and held.
He cranked the register handle.
Nothing happened.
The old man leaned towards the top of the register and reached
for the rubber mallet reposing there, ready for duty to coax
open the cash drawer. Suddenly the drawer unstuck itself and
shot out violently, catching the old man full in his concave
chest. The force of the blow lifted him off his spindly legs
and almost folded him in half as he hurtled towards the far
wall like a paper clip leaving a rubber band. The old man
bounced off the wall to the floor, followed by my ten and
single that were gently wafting downward in a losing battle
with gravity.
I hurried into the office. The old timer was lying in a crumpled
heap. But I could tell he was still alive by the way the veins
kept jumping in his neck. I lifted him under the arms and
helped him into an old defeated chair. He slowly came around,
made some gurgling noises and blinked his blank eyes. When
I was sure he was OK, or at least confident that he would
survive until I had made it out of the county, I slipped quietly
out the door and over to the 'Cuda that was waiting, virile
and potent, by the ancient gas pumps.
It was getting late, and the Adirondack mountain air was
beginning to chill. Still, I preferred driving with the top
down, and I zipped up my jacket. Dusk was approaching and
the bugs were assembling for evening roll call. It would be
a long haul back to New York City.
I opened the 'Cuda's door and slid behind the wheel, but resisted
twisting the key. The peacefulness of the scene enveloped
and held me. The quiet perfumed air, the coloring sky, the
still, weird shapes of anonymous machinery rusting off to
the side of the station, half-hidden in the tall grass and
weeds. I drank in all the soft sounds of a country evening
that are forgotten in hard-edge city living. I sat captivated,
savoring the moment.
But it was time to go. I made a pass for the key that would
bark the big block into action, but was stopped by a shuffling
sound behind me. I turned my head. It was the old man, looking
somewhat worn from his one-rounder with the cash register.
He managed a weak grin, his shaking hand probing for the gas
hose.
"That shore is a fancy car you got there. Bet she's a
real ripper, eh sonny?" 
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