I reminisce about the days of old
It was October 1990. I had been working 12-hour shifts, 7 days a week, for the last month. It was dark at 6:30 am. I was headed to work on yesterday’s fumes. I typically had a set of safety rules to follow; no stopping for gas at night was one of them. I had to break that rule. Except for the outer station bay, they were all full when I pulled up. Another rule I had was about always gassing up at the pump closest to the service station so the attendant could see me, which provided me a sense of security. I noticed a weird calm overcoming me, telling me, “it’s all gonna be OK.” I know, that’s easy to say after the fact, and I have no proof. But it’s true, it’s up to you if you want to believe it or not. So, just as I pulled in, “Old Time Rock and Roll” by Bob Seger began to play on the radio. This happened to be my brother’s favorite song, who had passed away due to a horrific car-&-bike accident about 5 months prior. I thought, “that’s cool!” I was hesitant about gassing up on the outside lane but reasoned, “Oh, well, what’s one time gonna hurt.” I jumped out, snagged my wallet, and started walking to the station to pay for my gas. While I walked, I had this crazy feeling that something wasn’t right. Simultaneously, a white car peeled up to the other side of my gas bay in the now empty slot. It was in a huge hurry squealing its tires and slamming the brakes with the radio thumping out a heavy base. I didn’t pay much attention to it past that I would have typically looked back to see if it would have run me over. However, I was preoccupied with this uneasy feeling. “What am I missing” was going through my head on repeat. I paid the attendant; as I grabbed the door to head back out, I realized I had left my keys sitting in the driver’s seat. BINGO! That’s what I was missing; my keys, “crap-ola!” Then I realized, with a sickening recollection, I locked the door. I can’t get to work now… “Good gravy,” I thought to myself. I figured I’ve already paid for gas, so I should at least get that done, and maybe I can just jimmy the door open anyway. The walk back to the truck was pretty long; with all this swirling in my head, I began to get very angry with myself. I felt that ‘everything’s gonna be alright’ sensation take me over in that long walk. I became hyper-observant and realized that that car, the white one, the in a huge hurry one, no one had gotten out yet? Odd for someone in such a hurry, I thought. I began to gas up my truck and think of ways to jimmy the lock. I figured when I was done, I would go ask the attendant for a hanger and try my luck. I got done gassing up the truck, put the nozzle back away, and realized no one has gotten out of that car yet. Just THEN, I turned to go back to the station and heard someone get out of that car; scuffing shoes were running towards me. I noticed they left their door open. I never heard it close. I turned around to have a young man standing next to me, with a gun pointed at my face. I stared at him for a good long minute. DIRECTLY AT HIS FACE. Just stared. He stared back. He waved the gun a sec and then yelled, “Give me your keys” I looked him up and down at least five times….from head to toe. I noticed he was small; I thought, I can take you. You little punk! That gun you have, it’s pretty little too. It’s a tiny little thing, a .22 handgun, smooth, shiny iridescent mother of pearl handle. You little punk; you can’t even be a good punk, sissy punk, with a sissy gun. Get a job. If I can get a job, you can too. As I stared him down, “Old Time Rock and Roll” came back into my head. At that moment, I backed away from him, one step at a time, until I was about 8 feet away. He began to yell and swear at me to give him the keys, my keys. “Give me your keys, you *efing B*tch,” “I’ll shoot you dead!!” I smacked the driver’s side window and said, “I can’t. I locked them in the truck; you want ’em, you get ’em. Stupid”! I could not read his emotion. Confusion? Disbelief? I don’t know. He eventually cocked his head to the side, like a dog that doesn’t understand a command or hears a funny noise. Then he cocked the gun to the side too. He ambled close to me; he looked in and saw my keys sitting in the seat. I backed away again, one apprehensive step at a time. He yelled and swore some more, “Give me your wallet, You f*cking b*tch.” I waited another minute then threw the wallet at him. He scooped it up from the ground and ran back to the open door of his car. The car peeled off out of the station and onto the street. I ran the other direction into the station. The attendant said he did not see or hear anything. YEAH RIGHT!? I called 911, and then my knees just gave out. I was shaking and quacking like a paint mixer machine at a big box store. I called work to tell them I would be late. I called AAA and was back at work by 9:30 am. I figured they have my money and checks (it was 1990, checks were just like having cash in those days). I better get to work. On the way to work after AAA opened my truck door that morning, “Hey, nineteen” by Steely Dan was the next song that came on the radio. This was my other brother’s favorite song, who passed away of cancer a few years before.
