Gas Station
by Michael Catherwood

We were finishing the tail
wind of a weekend bender
when Roy pulled his Buick
Electra 225 into Dobney’s
Sinclair to get some gas.
We all pitched in a couple of bucks
and watched from the car
in the December cold while Roy
pumped gas in light snow.
Suddenly gas sprayed the windshield
and yellowed the snow on the hood.
Then Roy aimed the nozzle
at his head like a gun. We all
laughed until Roy took out his blue
Bic lighter. Roy’s face grew serious.
“Oh shit” someone said,
and we all jumped out. Roy
started laughing again, slammed
the nozzle back into the pump,
got back in the car.
“On to the bar,” Roy said calmly
and added with a chuckle.
“No smoking till we get to
the Broken Rail.” He rolled
down his window and the cold
air filled our lungs
and our eyes stung with fumes.

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