Full Service

��PROBABLY THE LAST FULL SERVICE GAS STATION IN ALL of Kentucky,” Longrun said as he edged the big brown Buick LeSabre next to the pump.

The bony, red headed attendant came scurrying out of the concession stand and nodded to the woman getting out of the passenger seat. She set her legs stiffly on the ground, paid some attention to standing up straight slowly, and stretched wide. She bent her arms over her head, arched her back and let out a little moan.

The attendant was looking in the broad front windshield as he hurried to the driver’s window. Two men sat lethargic in the back seat, the way people do during a cross country trip.

“Fill ‘er up?”

“Howdy, friend. Yeah. Will you please full it up. Put in the expensive stuff.”

The attendant turned a nod of agreement into a swing toward the back of the automobile. He flipped open the lid of the car’s tank, twisted off the fuel cap, stepped back as the pressure of emptiness poofed out invisible fumes. He deftly removed the nozzle from the pump and plunged it into the tank. Agile finger fixed it so the gasoline rushed into the Buick. The attendant was already reaching for a squeegee, which was dripping a water solution, and stretching to apply it to the front window.

“What’s your name, son?” the driver asked.

“Name’s Hogan. Jeff Hogan, at your service.”

“Well, son, you do a damn fine job, I’ll tell you that. I’ve been watching you in the rear-view mirror and I’ve not seen anyone in quite some time who was so quick and sure with all those dials and twists and hoses. Missed a spot there.”

Jeff pulled out a maroon cloth and rubbed the spot at which the driver was pointing.

“You live around here?”

Jeff said, “Yep, sure do. Right over that hill, in Morgantown.” Jeff had heard the question often and was well past the point where he wanted to snarl, “No, I live in Montana. They fly me in every morning for a fucking four eighty-five an hour. They think I’m worth it.”

“Well, you do damn fine work.”

“Thanks,” Jeff said, and walked his squeegee to the rear of the car.

The woman was returning from behind the concession stand, attempting to straighten her wrinkled strawberry mou-mou. As she slid into the front seat, the driver said, “Real nice boy, there. Seems real polite.”

Jeff had by now dropped the squeegee into its bucket and, noticing the hood of the LeSabre was not released, asked, “Check your oil?”

The woman leaned across the front seat, maintaining her balance with one hand on the dash and the other on the cushion. “Mr. Longrun here really likes you.”

That’s nice, Jeff thought. In a couple of minutes this car load of geeks will be around the bend and on their way toward Indiana. He would never see them again and, what is more, did not care if he did or not. They were not like Julie. She just up and left. These people were preparing to go. She was something special. These people are just so many dusty road covered city folk. Called him at home one night and said tomorrow was the day! Gone, without a warning, to Louisville, to make her mark. It’s true, she talked about leaving for years. But when it finally happened, what a shock.

Jeff was thinking these thoughts as he stared at the huge pale cleavage sandwiched in the center of the woman’s too tight blouse. He was licking his lower lip absent-mindedly when Longrun said, “What’s your daddy do for a living, son?”

“Ahh, he’s the Zenith repairman over in Morgantown.”

“Oh,” Longrun said with some surprise, “He repairs radios and televisions?”

“Yeah,” Jeff answered, “Of course, he does more than Zeniths. He can do anything electrical. He’s got a good understanding for them things. But the sign out front says Zenith. I guess they gave him some money to get started.”

Longrun wiped beads of sweat beginning to form at the back of his ear. He twisted his head to the side asking, “Your daddy’s got a nice job up there in Morgantown.”

“I suppose,” Jeff said.

“Why is it, then, that you’re pumping gas?”

“Well, it pays better than my old man could pay me. There’s more work, too. Tourists passing through, and all.”