Wrapped in Rain(14)

"That be all?" Bessie asked me over her shoulder. When she stood up, I realized how disproportionate she really was. To get that way had taken some doing and some time. At five feet two, she probably weighed more than 350 pounds. She was enormous-a picture all to herself. She looked forty, plus or minus five years, and the heavy purple eye shadow did little to disguise the hard mileage. When she moved, she clanked like a walking Christmas tree because she was draped in jewelry-about ten necklaces, just as many bracelets on each wrist, and rings on all ten fingers, a few with more than one ring. She was barefoot with a few toe rings and dressed in a sweaty purple tank top-no bra-and spandex shorts. The spandex worked like an ineffective girdle, and a bra would have been helpful. The sides of her shorts were stretched so tight that they were see-through. The wall behind her was covered with cigarettes, chewing tobacco, and pornographic magazines. A bumper sticker on the wall behind her read, "Spandex is a right, and I'm exercising mine."



"Well, hey, sweet thang."

"You're open kind of late," I said.

"Honey, we're always open. Weekends. Holidays." She turned her head gently sideways, smiled ever so slowly, and said, "We're a full-service station." Then she paused. "You need me to change your oil? Won't take but a few minutes." Something in her tone told me she wasn't talking about cars.

"No ma'am. Thank you. My oil's fine. Just the gas, coffee, and maybe a cinnamon roll." Next to the coffeepot was a little sign that read, "Ice Cups Free, Spit Cups $1." When I turned to read the sign, she flopped up on the counter like a whale at Sea World.

"You know, it's funny," she said, "people around here love to chew on ice." The inside of the store was covered in mirrors, so when she pulled up the front of her shirt, wiped her mouth, grabbed her lipstick off the top of the cash register, and put on two thick layers of deep purple lipstick, I caught it.

"Yeah, I can see that."

She slid off the counter and eyed the Canon. "That's a big camera." She sprayed herself with three squirts of two different types of perfume and then held up a small carry mirror, rolled her lips together, dabbed one corner with her pinky, and said, "You always carry that thing?"

I looked down and admitted, "I rarely go anywhere without it."



"Hah, like American Express," she said and slapped her knee, sending waves of jiggle up and down her thigh. "American Express. Get it?"

I smiled and took another look at her. This woman had lived fast and hard. This gas station was the best she either could or would do. "Something like that."

"Don't it get heavy?"

I thought for a moment and squinted one eye. "I suppose it's kind of like wearing glasses. I don't even think about it anymore."

The woman leaned over the counter again and pushed her elbows together. "What are you, a photographer or something?" At the end of the bubble gum aisle, the little cowboy had sat down on the ground and stuffed three more pieces of Super Bubble in his mouth. Wrappers surrounded him like snowflakes, and his mouth was so full he could barely close it. Pinkish-red saliva oozed out the sides of his mouth.

"Most days," I said, smiling and trying not to look at her. "Other days, I just take pictures."

"Yeah," the woman behind the counter said, nodding, "tell me about it. A lot of my customers bring their cameras. Big, little, 35-millimeter, digital, even some movie cameras. Honey, I've seen 'em all. Every shape and size." She motioned over her shoulder. "They set 'em up on a tripod in the back, but that one," she said with one hand on her hip and nodding at my waist, "is a good'un. How much it cost?"

I pulled the camera off my shoulder and held it out over the counter. "Well, let's just say that you'd have to sell a lot of gas to get one. Here, have a look for yourself."

The woman tilted her head and looked at me out the top of her eyes. "Darlin', you know that gas ain't what I'm sellin'. Besides, I wouldn't know what to do behind a camera. I'm always in front of it."



I slung the camera back over my shoulder, said, "Suit yourself," and pulled a cinnamon roll off the shelf.

While her right hand instinctively began gliding across the greasy keys of the cash register, the little boy snuck around the back of the bubble gum aisle and tiptoed up behind me. The woman looked up at me, got my attention with her eyes, and then shot a glance at the boy. I watched him now out of the corner of my eye. I whispered to her, "I was curious once too."

She smiled, and her shoulders relaxed. I set my coffee, cinnamon roll, and a can of beans on the counter and said, "This plus my gas." The woman stretched her neck and watched as the little boy slowly reached out his hand toward the shutter button on my camera. I kept my eye on her and noticed that one of the perfume shots had yet to dry on the middle fold of her triple chin.

We stood in silence, and yet I heard a familiar voice saying, Listen here, child, that's God's little girl, baggage and all, so don't go judging the cover. He doesn't care what she looks like. He'll take her and us any way he can get us. Just like the woman at the well. Best you switch lenses and start seeing her that way too.

Yes ma am, I nodded, thinking to myself. Even though she had been dead five years, Miss Ella was never too far away.