Wrapped in Rain(13)

I pulled close to the pump and parked behind an oddly out-of-place Volvo station wagon with New York tags. It looked like something purchased directly out of a primetime commercial. A cellular antenna and shiny black bike racks covered the top. In the racks, the owner had locked a small chrome dirt bike with knobby tires and training wheels that might fit an eager five-year-old.

I shut off my diesel and stepped out. I can't really explain my fascination with diesel engines, or trucks, but both do something for me. The low, gutteral whomp, the clickety-clack of valves slamming against metal under the inordinately high compression, the manual six-speed transmission, the rough, gut jolting suspension. Maybe it just reminds me of driving the tractor.

Bessie gave me a once-over-something that didn't take long. What she saw was anything but noteworthy. I'm slender, about six feet, shoulder-length sandy hair, thirtyish, fit-looking but starting to show some wear, jeans, T-shirt stained with hot sauce, running shoes. I yawned, stretched, and slung the Canon over my shoulder. After nine years, the camera had become an appendage.

"Hey, good-lookin'," Bessie sang over the intercom. I waved behind me and unscrewed my gas cap. "You need any help, darlin', you let me know." I waved again and turned, and she leaned over the countertop, accentuating two of her more obvious features. Something she had done before.

When I opened the cab door to grab my wallet, the barking from behind the garage door went from nuisance to ballistic. The sound told me saliva was spewing everywhere. Bessie slapped the countertop with her huge palm and yelled, "Hush, Maxximus!" The dog paid her no attention, and when I pushed down the lever and turned the gas on, the "Closed" sign started banging against the door just like they do in the movies seconds before the tornado swoops down and levels the earth. I looked over my shoulder and heard the dog rapidly running back and forth between the front door and the garage door. His toenails were cleaning out the grooves in the floor as he dug in and pressed his nose into the small crack at the bottom. With no change in the dog's behavior, Bessie yelled again at the top of her lungs, "Maxximus, don't make me do it. I'll mash that dad-blame button in two shakes if you don't shut up!"



If Maxximus had been to obedience school at one time, there was no sign of it. I pumped the gas with both eyes trained on the door and the cab door open.

Growing more irritated, the woman shoveled another handful of pork rinds in her mouth, brushed the crumbs off her chest, grabbed a second remote from the countertop-this one fitted with a small antenna and one red button-pointed it toward the garage, and slowly pressed the red button one time with the tip of her index finger. A smile creased her face as she pressed the button, letting her fingertip taste the rush of electricity. Her eyes never left the TV.

Behind the bay door, the dog yelped and evidently knocked over the water dispenser, because I heard a huge crash, and then about five gallons of water gushed out from underneath the front door. Maxximus, now whimpering, stuck his nose to the base of the door and began licking voraciously. "I told you, you stupid canine," the woman yelled, and half-eaten pork rinds bubbled out the sides of her mouth. Beneath the door, the high-pitched whine continued.



The gas tanks supplying the pumps must have been low, because they pumped more of a dribble than a flow. The methodical clicking with every dime told me that this would take a while. I wedged the gas cap into the handle and began looking for a squeegee to wash off the lovebugs. Not finding one, I uncoiled a hose next to the pump and sprayed the windshield and grille. Maxximus had now grown relatively quiet except for sniffing at the base of the garage door and running laps between the front and back doors. Topping off my tank at thirty-four gallons, I heard a trickle behind the door and then saw a single stream of yellow liquid seeping beneath the door and running along the cracks of the sidewalk.

I skipped over the grease spots and stepped inside the store, a cowbell ringing above me. "Evening," I said. Not taking her eyes off 007, she waved the back of her hand in my general direction and said, "Hey, honey, don't mind Maxximus. He can't get out. But," she said, pointing beneath the counter, "if he do, I'll shoot his butt." Poised to shovel another handful of rinds into her mouth, she waved her fist toward the back left corner of the store and said, `John's occupied. If it's an emergency, I got another'n in the back."

"No thanks." I pointed at the coffeepot. "Coffee fresh?"

"Sugar"-she rolled her eyes-"there ain't nothing fresh in here, but if you wait five minutes, I'll brew some."

I pulled the pot from the warmer, sniffed it, nodded, and said, "No ma'am, this smells fine."

"Suit yourself." I poured myself a cup and placed it on the counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a small boy peering around the bubble gum aisle. He was wearing a red baseball cap backwards, a two-holster belt with two shiny six-shooters, and scuffed black cowboy boots that looked like they never came off during daylight hours.



"Hey, partner, that your bike?"

The little cowboy nodded slowly, trying not to drop his armful of chewing gum or expose it to whoever was behind the women's bathroom door.

"Nice bike," I said. The boy had beautiful blue eyes.

The kid nodded again and grabbed another pack of gum off the rack.

"Yeah," I said, looking at my watch, "I'd be tired too if I were you. It's past both our bedtimes." The kid looked over his shoulder toward the women's bathroom and nodded again. From behind the door of the women's bathroom, a soft woman's voice said, `Jane? Wait right there. And only one piece of bubblegum." The kid gave the door another glance and then slid his hand down the rack and snagged another piece of Super Bubble, bringing his tally to what looked like about twenty. His pockets were full and brimming over with yellow, blue, and red wrappers.