Ol' Jim's Gas Station
I wish I could be more descriptive but I don't know a damn thing about plants other than they are green and come in an array of colored flowers. And I'll be damned if I'm going to research the matter. This so called book that I'm writing is, according to Kenny, more for therapy, or perhaps even enlightenment, then it is for publication.
(Kenny; this part is for you: BITE MY ASS!!!!.......Therapy? Really?....Whatever)
But, if it wasn't for Kenny insisting (prodding, demanding, incessantly prodding) that I drive into town to look at all of the places that I would be writing about, dredging up a past that I’m not totally excited about reliving, then I wouldn't have even known that the gas station no longer existed. In fact, until Kenny told me I didn't even know that ol' Jim, the owner had, sadly, passed away. Perhaps if I had known in time I would have attended the funeral. He was, after all, a great guy.
Okay, I’m lying. I wouldn’t have gone to his funeral. That would have required me to engage in conversation --- and not just conversation but small talk. Given my incredibly inept social skills the situation would have rendered me a bumbling, stuttering idiot (albeit a well-dressed one) and taken me back to my awkward high school days. No thanks, I’ll pass – and that makes me feel horrible because Jim, as I said, was a really good guy. I really should have paid my respects.
(But, in all honesty, I wouldn’t even go to my own funeral if I thought I could get away with it.)
Wow....A nursery. They say the more things change the more they stay the same. Well not in this case. I wonder how many more surprises await me as I continue my return to Nowhere, America odyssey.
“Remember,” bellows the booming voice of Kenny that I can’t get out of my head, “It's a happy journey.....NO self-loathing....Understand?”
“Grr.....I got it, I got it.....Shit.”
I chose the local gas station as my first piece for one main reason: It's on the edge of town. I can drive by it real slow, pull into the parking lot, turn around, and high tail it back home. No one outside of those that happen to be there would even have to know that I stopped by. (But give it five minutes and the whole damn town will have been notified --- therefore, I must be quick)
I don’t recall Kenny ever saying that I had to get out of my car and talk to anybody so, by God, I'm not going to.
No....Freaking....Way....The old outhouse is still there. Whoa..... That's -- Ugh -- kind of disgusting.
Ol' Jim's was one of the few places in town where I felt I could just kick back, not say a word, and be accepted. There were more than enough of the old farm hands coming in and out of the station for Jim and Kenny to bullshit with; allowing me the luxury of happily sitting back and quietly watching life go by. I was comfortable at Ol’ Jim’s......with exception given to the outhouse.
Jim's place didn't have a bathroom.....Just that awful outhouse. I never once dared to set foot in it and, near as I can tell, neither did Kenny. When he was working for Jim he would tell the old man, “I'm going to the bathroom.”
Jim, sitting behind a cluttered desk (at least I believe it was a desk that was what was lying beneath his piles of books and papers) would simply nod his head and go back to his newspaper. Kenny would then exit the building, get in his pickup and drive halfway across town; going home to use his own bathroom; complete with porcelain, sink, soft toilet paper, and a can of shit be gone spray.
As I gaze at the door of the outhouse I notice that there are no markings on it. I have no idea if it's true or not but I had read somewhere that the old outhouses used to have either a half moon on the door to indicate a women's privy, or a sun on the door for men. It could be just an old wives’ tale, but, like I said, that's what I have read.
Given that there are no markings on this door I can only assume that the women have long since come to their senses and have taken full advantage of the wonders of indoor plumbing.
Yes, this old relic had to be strictly a men's outhouse. Only a barbarian would plop his hairy, crusty ass down inside that sunbaked shit box.
I had also read somewhere that men's outhouses always had the seat mangled by wild animals that would wander in at night and chew on the seats to consume the salt from the urine that was dried onto them. Given the aiming skills of most men I can totally believe that. A man can throw a baseball over a plate from sixty feet, six inches…..Can’t hit the center of the bowl while standing over it….
Blech.....Ok. No more outhouse.
The door to the main building ---- ok, shack if we must be honest ---- is closed. Back in the day that door was never closed during business hours.
I can’t help but smile as I remember the sign Jim had hanging on the wall just to the right of the doorway as you walked inside; it was always the first thing I saw.
The sign had a drawing of a man with his head in hand and looking absolutely miserable. Just above the man the sign said:
“One day, I was feeling down when somebody told me “Cheer up, things could get worse”. So I cheered up and, sure enough, things got worse.”
If you only knew Jim, you would see the humor in it.
Because the lot was gravel and the door was always open, dust was a mainstay inside Jim's station. There was a broom there and I hear tale that it got used on a regular basis, but I can't claim to have ever seen it in action.
But that was okay. Oddly, the dust just made the place seem more homey. I could take a seat on the beat up cloth chair and watch the dust float about in the sunshine that would beam through the small window at the front of the station. A table and chair would sit just below the window so that Kenny could look out and see if anyone was driving in to fill up. Although you didn't really need to look, you could hear the tires hit the gravel as the cars and old pickups made their way to up to the pump.
Most of the time Kenny would be sitting at the table sharpening one of the many knives he owned. You could pick up any one of Kenny's knives and shave with them. You had to be careful though, those knives would cut you deep if your hand slipped.
Kenny’s favorite, by far and away, was a very large bowie knife which, to this very day, he still owns. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen him sharpening that blade --- and I’ve never once seen him actually use it. A friend of ours once joked, “Why skin the deer when you can just hack its legs off?”
Jim was what would turn out to be the last of a dying breed. In these parts there is no such thing as a full service gas station anymore. No one comes up to your car and asks you how much you want, cleans your windows, or checks the oil and your tires. Sadly, there are no companies that want to pay anyone to do that kind of thing anymore. I kind of miss it on those cold and rainy days when I have to get out of my car to fill up. (I hear tale that there are still full service gas stations on the east coast but I have never personally been there to confirm it)
The running joke around town was when Kenny worked the pump you always got eight dollars’ worth of gas; $7.50 in the tank and .50 cents on the ground. Kenny may not have had the best math skills, but he certainly did know how to round up.
You know what, I almost forgot about the stock tank sitting outside the station. I can't remember how many gallons that old galvanized stock tank could hold but it was more than big enough to hold a seventy pound plus catfish and some monster snapping turtles. Occasionally you could go to the station and see one of these creatures floating around in the tank, filled with fresh water, in order to clean the mud out of its system. Trust me, catfish tastes horrible if you don’t get them properly cleaned.
Now I have no problem eating catfish. In fact, fish fries are a part of everyday life around these parts, especially during Lent. There are few things better than fried catfish, French fries, and your favorite beer. (Well, not at lent. We obviously can’t serve beer at church --- I think….I'm sure there is a Catholic joke in here somewhere -- but nothing is coming to mind right now)
Of course, a lot of things here are fried, so I suppose it's not any real surprise that high blood pressure and heart attacks are just a way of life. But, that's nothing to get fired up about.....Just ask the locals.
Catfish -- damn good.......A snapping turtle, on the other hand....
I have never once had a desire to eat a snapper. Snappers are just plain ugly and I just can't imagine anything that grotesque tasting good. I've been told by several friends that I'm really missing out.....I'll take their word for it. (Yes, I’ve been told they taste like chicken. But doesn’t everything?)
Ok, sorry, I got distracted....Let's get back to the old couch.
The couch in Jim's station, I'm quite certain, had once enjoyed a quiet and peaceful existence inside Jim's house. But then, I'm guessing, Jim's wife decided it was time for new furniture and the old couch suddenly found itself at the station, covered in dust, stained by greasy gas station food and the occasional Skoal or Redman spit that had inadvertently dribbled off the lip of some farmer that was shootin' the shit with Jim and Kenny.
I loved that old chair. I used to sit in it and pat the arm just so I could watch the dust fly off of it. I also liked to sit in it and listen to the sound of someone’s boots as they entered the station and sauntered across the hard wood floor -- whump, whump, whump. I don't know why, but I love the sound of a pair of boots on a hard wood floor. (Oddly, I had never owned a pair of boots growing up)
It was also in that old chair that I acquired a taste for the Landshire burrito. (I wonder if they still exist.) I don't remember the names of all of them but I tend to gravitate towards those of the spicy variety.
Today I would be a little concerned at making any attempt at consuming this oversized, microwaveable, plastic wrapped, sodium bomb. But back then I practically emptied out Jim's refrigerator of all the Landshire burritos he had available.
The key to enjoying your burrito was to make sure you didn't smack the arm of the old chair beforehand. You didn't want to send the dust flying as you were microwaving your lunch. Otherwise your burrito ends up tasting a little gritty.
You know what, Kenny? Perhaps you're right. Maybe this is good therapy for me. I wonder just how long I've been sitting here this goofy grin on my face?
Damn. These are good memories; memories that have been buried for way too long in the back of my head.
(Sigh) Jim was the only guy in this town other than me that liked dark beer. I remember the Celebrator that I had my brother give him. Kenny (the idiot) left the beer in his truck and let it bake in the sun for a day....But it didn't matter. Jim guzzled it down and told Kenny to have me get him some more.......Unfortunately I never did. Damn it.
Good guy....Good guy.
I best get home and put this all on paper before I forget.....again....
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