Driving in the Country

I turn off of the highway lined with brush and trees to fill up my 1939 Packard 120 in desperate need of gas. I hear the crunch of the gravel under my black tires as I go around the white-washed building to the pumps. The man to pump the gas stands attentively and quietly, the gas pumps his only company during his long days of work, I imagine. I bet when he hears the rush of a lone car speed past this sleepy town, he likes to think the town is almost as lonely as him.

As I turn off the ignition, he says a quiet, “hello” and nods his head towards me.

“Grab yourself a Coke” he says as he grabs the pump to fill my car, “it’s a hot day for traveling.”

Heeding his advice and walking away in the full assurance that he won’t take advantage of me or my car, I walk towards the hypnotic hum of a refrigerator keeping the ambrosia of Coca-Cola cold in their glass bottles. The smell of gasoline taints the air, but only because this is a gas station. I think that if I would walk farther into this town, it would smell like the flowers and trees growing in the distance, untainted by pollution that overcrowded cities seem to be synonymous with.

After depositing a shiny Alabama state quarter into a tin box next to the refrigerator, I walk back to my car, listening to the sound of my heels clicking against the sand and gravel and dings of the gas meter signaling the flow of gasoline. Mixtures of sounds like the old swinging sign overhead and cicadas in the tall grass aid in the symphony of sounds.

My hand grabs the hot metal handle to open up the driver’s door, where I carefully place my half-consumed coke on the floorboard. I finally notice how my gas tank is full and the man who filled it standing as stiff as a soldier, back to the line of gas pumps instead of soldiers. Turning on the ignition, I pull away from the country gas station and onto the highway once again.