gas station love

My friend is on the road. She's been there for a while but I'm pretty sure she still checks in to read whatever BS I've written. Here's her blog: http://www.theroadrevisited.blogspot.com

Anyways, she really likes this story so I thought I'd post it here. (Hopefully, my mom doesn't read this either; she might take it personally. Just in case, Mom, this story is fiction. It is not true.) If I can write a few more of these, I'm going to publish them all in a collection called "My Journeys with Women Behind Counters" or at least that's how the joke goes. I think I wrote this about 3 years ago and it shows. Oh, to be 24 and in love. Ridiculous. Also, I know almost all of the sentences have only 1 space after the commas. Cut and Paste failed me there but if I get some time, I'll fix it.

Gas Station Love
by
M. Rolfe G. (*aside* That's my real middle name. For those who never knew, that's the big secret.)

I worked up the street at Locus, Inc., a researcher and all around wage slave, when I first met Claudia. I stopped by the station for the usual $10 in gas and a pack of Marlboro Lights, "in a box please." Claudia stood behind the counter with its bulletproof plastic divider, playing the part of petroleum temptress, replete with long dyed blonde hair with a hint of black roots, a lightly dusted but freckled face and eyes that twinkled when caught in the fluorescent light overhead. We had one of those great conversations that’s all winks and eyebrows. Exactly what we talked about doesn’t matter, but it was something about me looking too young to smoke and then her surprise at my advanced age after thoroughly inspecting my I.D. I think I might even have snuck in the usual "I’m in a band, we had a gig" routine but I don’t think she understood. She spoke in a very thick accent, which I originally thought to be Eastern European. I soon found myself imitating her. "No, no, no, I not too young," I said, sounding something like Ivan Drago’s wife from Rocky IV. She gave me a weird look and a smirk as I hastily made for the door to get back to work before I was missed.

The life of a Government Relations researcher for a medium-sized dot.com company is not the easy street my waiter friends think it to be. I constantly felt bound to the desk and the lack of necessary creative thought led to the constant reorganization of desk tops, files and even paperclips. For example, I kept a library of print resources in a box under my desk. Once, while in the ninth circle of boredom, I devised a Dewey Decibel-esque system for the ten books contained within. The only reason I continued to smoke was just so I could leave my desk every hour or so. The high point of my day came strictly at 4PM, when my naive employee, Kauser, would challenge me to a game of ping pong, at which I beat him mercilessly. Sometimes, just for fun, I would tease him a little by giving him enough points to hope for victory, followed by a string of 10 points that would end the game. That kid hated me.

However, when not practicing the art of loafing or napping, I sat in my cubicle, occasionally getting to some work in between naps, reading radical left-wing weblogs and checking out prospective draftees for my Fantasy Football league. I know it doesn’t sound so bad, but believe me, at times my brain started to revolt. To make matters worse, in this era of global warming, one of the mildest and most beautiful summers ever had peaked and was strolling towards its end right outside my window, wasted.

My mother, being one of those delightful people who believes in self help books, constantly sent me these "tests" that were designed to tell you your "mood color" or other such nonsense that can determine your path in life. I was always blue or green, which is, oddly enough, the color of my eyes and car, respectively. Around this time she even bought me a GRE 2 month class which conflicted with band practices, smoking, drinking, cussing and generally everything I enjoyed at the time. She loved me and I knew she meant the best for me, she always has. Even still, she often tag teamed with my sister and successfully body slammed me repeatedly, telling me that I was making all the wrong decisions but shouldn’t quit my job because, "Then we’d worry so much about you, it just wouldn’t be safe to leave such a well-paying job that makes you miserable." My sister, 5 years older and finally engaged, started to show the early symptoms of "Newlywed Syndrome," that ailment that strikes so many newlyweds, causing them to feel sorry for those still single, the desire to match/force them into a couple with their friends, and giving advice on how life should be (i.e. like theirs, "perfect") to any single who doesn’t ask. Another symptom of the NWS is that it causes single friends, and little brothers, to hate them.

I usually saw Claudia about once a week or so. I’d stop by for gas and smokes, she’d berate me for smoking too much, give me winks and bent brows and then I’d pay and bail out. We never even exchanged names. One day, I drew the long straw and made the Vocus Development Team Smoke Run, resulting in the following bit of dialogue:
"Oh hey, how are you?"
"Doin’ good, what about you?" *smile*
"I fine." *smirk*
"Well, cool... Hey, I need to get 5 packs of Marlboro’s, in boxes please."
"Oh my goodness, five packs? You smoke too much. Look much too young to smoke so much." *brow arch*
"Hey wait, they’re not all for me. I lost the smoke run straw poll at the office." *grin*
"Ok, ok, sure, sure. I let you off this time." *wink*
Somebody then asked her something in Spanish and she replied "Muey Bueno" in the absolute sexiest voice I’ve ever heard, kind of rolling it together in her mouth and then flicking it off her tongue like a spent cherry seed. At that moment I realized I could love this girl.

Things continued in this manner for the next couple of weeks.

* * * * * * * * *

Towards the tail end of summer, I tried working out everyday, running and lifting weights with the Employee, trying to get in shape and maybe even raise my energy level so as not to fall asleep everyday at 1:30PM. I still saw Claudia occasionally, but always in a mercantile fashion. I left work after one of said workouts and decided that Taco Bell would satisfy my muscles’ needs for protein. On the way, I passed by the gas station and there was Claudia beginning what looked like a walk home from work. I pulled up next to her and said, "Hey Claudia. You need a ride home?"

She glanced over, kind of looked over my Cherokee, purse her lips and said, "Well, I do not know." "Oh come on, I’m no wierdo." I said. Then I gave her the sidelong glance and grin that I’ve been told makes me look about 14 years-old and completely trustworthy. She sighed and said, "Mister, a ride home would be good. What’s your name?" ""I’m Max with an X." "That a nice name, Max with a X. How you know my name?" "I saw your name tag a few weeks ago and remembered." "Oh.. ok."

She only lived a few blocks away by the Seacrest train station in a one story, pea soup green ranch home that she shared with her parents and six brothers and sisters. I dropped her off, noticed her mother working the yard for weeds, still dressed in her maid’s outfit, said something ridiculous and unfunny like, "Hey, you both work at places that end with an ‘-o’." She went to get out then turned and asked what I was listening to. "The Replacements," I said, "You like?" "Yeah, they ok. I like the guitars," she replied.

I was nervous, couldn’t think of how to phrase my next question. Why does it always feel like this? The steel brace for rejection built up around my heart but I knew I had to try. "So, you want to hang out some time?" The question kind of hung there in the air for a few seconds and finally after 2 or 10 century-long heartbeats I saw a flash of fire across her brown eyes. "Sure," she said. "How about you give me number and I call you next week?"

I knew what that meant. I know what that always means. You give her the number, she never calls. I put on my best fake smile, tried to look excited and gave her my cell phone number. "202-558-9483. Call anytime." A week went by with no word from Claudia. I stayed away from the gas station for appearances sake. Then, the next Friday, she called. "Hey, Max with a X, sorry I haven’t called. It’s my brother’s birthday. Want to come over for dinner?"

So I went. We had fun for the most part. Her brothers and sisters were very nice and they spoke English very well but her parents knew very little English and Claudia had to act as an interpreter between me and them but mostly I stayed silent. Playing the part of the well-meaning Southern gentleman, I even managed to keep my elbows off the table. I knew very little about their culture, with all I could think being that Columbians probably salsa danced a lot, grew coffee with the help of donkeys, and manufactured over half the world’s supply of cocaine. They stuffed me full of refried beans, rice and tacos, complaining that Mexican food was nothing compared to Columbian dishes. They complained about work and got drunk on some sort of wine punch. We listened to salsa and when Claudia tried to teach me how to dance, I surprised her with my knowledge of a few salsa turns. She shook her hips and showed me how they really went, but I think she appreciated my stubborn white boy efforts. At the end of the night, she walked me to my car, looked up at me, and gave the smallest of kisses. A quick brush of the softest lips I’ve ever touched before across mine, in the kind of kiss that marks you as hers for however long she wants you, the kind of kiss that lets you know you can wake up happy in the morning.

Most often I would pick her up after work, we’d either go play around in the city, usually Havana Gardens, or we’d come back to my place and listen to music, she’d watch the band practice or we’d just lounge about the house. I quit smoking after work, keeping the habit solely for the desk absence it afforded but throwing them out once she arrived. I tried to explain politics to her a few times but she never cared for it. Mostly, she would listen to Miles Davis or Howlin’ Wolf, slowly rolling her hips to the gruff beat of Wolf’s dirty blues. I even started making her mixed tapes, agonizing over my selections and sometimes leaving them with her coworker Donovan, who would hide them behind Cokes in the refrigerator, waiting for her to find them as she helped customers. Every now and again, I’d take her to Old Navy or some such place to get some new clothes, tight little tshirts, skirts and jeans that she loved. Being the type of girl she was, she’d always have to somehow repay me. This usually involved her buying me all sorts of food, spending a few days with me when she had time off, and cooking me all sorts of chicken and shrimp with rice and exotic sauces, real Columbian cuisine.
But what I loved most of all was waking up next to her in the morning. The sway of the mattress as she rolled her hips on top of me, gently tickling the fuzzy tip of my nose until I woke up, ready to drown in the deep brown pools of her eyes. Those eyes gave me so much energy that another day of work burnout and familial oppression was no big deal at all. Those eyes were my Columbian cocaine. (*author's note: GEEZ*) "Wake up, my Max with a X. Wake up, my love..."

* * * * * * * * *

"Mister, your change. Mister, hey-lo? Here’s your change, $5.12."

Suddenly, my eyes jerked away from a spot in space somewhere above the candy bar rack. "Oh sorry, Claudia," I stammered with a slight smile. "Thanks. Have a, have a good one. Seeya around."

She had a slightly bemused smirk on her face and an arch to her brow. "You do too."

Backing away, I excused my way through the crowded line and out the door. I quickly climbed back into the Jeep and made it back to work before my boss even knew I was gone, the Return of the Cigarette Hero, delivering his goods to the needy.