Clark Gas Station: Kalamazoo 1969
by Jack Fritscher
Summer-parents, young, worn,
driving aimless past dusk
through the heat wave
circling through town
to cool off, cool down,
with wagon windows
overflowing with two wild tots,
green through the glass
in the buggy fluorescence
of this small filling station,
soft with light,
where I work late shifts alone,
inviting in the night
to a crowded husband
with a dollar bill
who stalls for time
for two and a half gallons
at 39.9 cents
to avoid going home
with his gum-popping bride
and his two squealing brats
pajama-ed for bed,
sweaty, sticky with candy,
whining for Coca-Cola.
In his rear-view mirror
he watches me,
hot, cool, twenty-six,
embarrassed for him
embarrassed for himself.
I crouch down to fill his tank.
Take your time, bud, he calls back,
elbow out his window,
biceps tattooed in Saigon,
winking in the side mirror,
nodding,
taking his moment with me.
Cap his tank
Take his dollar.
His fingers touch mine.
The bug zapper cracks purple lightning.
We laugh.
His eyes saving me up for later,
his grin, my grin, launching him,
So long, bud,
with his wife and fluorescent green kids
off into the darkness that is his alone,
with his hunting dog tied to a tree
out front of his house
with two cups
unwashed
in her kitchen sink.