Old Gas Stations

From a distance they looked holy.  A halo of insects swarming each light. An old man chewing tobacco would come to your car window and look you over.  Ask where you’d been.  Where you were headed.  Who you passed along the way.

He washed your windshield while the pump clicked off the gallons and you tapped your thumbs on the steering wheel.  A baseball game played on a radio.  A mechanic cursed from beneath a fat Cadillac.  And the smell of gasoline sanctified the air.

Then the old man hung up the hose.  You handed him a five-dollar bill.  And he counted out the change.  Maybe he said something about catfish.  Or watermelons.  Or he warned you about a gravel stretch a few miles up the road.

When you pulled out, there he was, in your rear view mirror, wiping his hands on his blue rag.