'The Good To Go Gas Station'
“That’ll be one thirty-eight, please,” she says.
The cashier looked at me from across the counter as I fished around in my wallet for 38 cents.
Only four pennies and a dime were beneath the other bills. It nearly broke my soul to do the same to another dollar. With a grimace, I did it anyway.
Rest assured, the first sip of coke was well worth it.
I took the bright, yellow Styrofoam cup and headed for the door. A robust woman stood behind me, nearly shoulder-checking me as I walked by. I wondered if she was buying gas, or maybe she was stocking up on protein shakes.
Regardless of the shakes, or I guess maybe just her fists, I’m fairly certain she could have taken me. I’ve never been in a fight before, and I didn’t intend on getting my ass handed to me on the floor of that Good To Go gas station and quick stop grocery.
So out the door I went, and into the 82 degrees of the day.
There was a large man standing to the right of the door. A newly lit cigarette hung from his right hand, but I assumed it was on the edge of his lips the instant before I made eye contact with him. I had a momentary thought.
It’s a poor life to be a cigarette. Any promise of happiness or success that it has is scorched to death on one end and sucked out from the other. Within minutes, or maybe seconds even, there’s nothing left. Just a butt left to smolder in the wind.
The man in front of me was no stranger to the act of sucking the life out of a three inch Death Stick (Thank you, George Lucas), or so it seemed. I could smell it radiating off of him.
I might be overthinking this, but he looked like he wanted to hurt me, too. His face was pudgy, so maybe I just didn’t see it right, but I swear he grimaced at me.
I’ve never been in a fight, like I said. And regardless of my not-so-close calls at gas stations like the Good To Go here in Rochester, I’m really not sure if I’d ever actually do well in one. My only claim to fighting practices are:
I’ve seen the movie “Rocky” a couple of times, so I’m sure that would help me with the motivational part of things. And don’t worry, you’re not alone. The scene where he drinks the egg is disgusting to me, too.
When I was 14 or 15, my friends and I set up a make-shift ring in one of the bedrooms. He punched me, I punched him, he punched me again, and we both pushed each other down and laughed. While his laughter may have been real, I’d like to think mine was somewhat of a slow sob.
I took an early retirement from my boxing career. I hung up the gloves and said goodbye to a luxurious future of broken noses and puffy eyes.
So even though I’ve never drank egg yolk or pounded raw meat with my fists, I do know what it feels like to take a boxing glove to the face and live to tell about it.
But let’s hope the next time I step into the Good To Go won’t be my last.
One day, I may just find myself with my face on the grimy floor of a gas station, between the rows of candy bars and the medical self-help isle.
Maybe I could find 38 cents down there while I’m at it.
