Across oil-stained white concrete, four tires rolled slowly over a black rubber hose, their crushing weight blasted shots of air down the hollowed tube to ring the little bell on the wall of our station – Ding! Ding!
A once time-honored signal at gas stations that a customer arrived to purchase fuel, get a washed windshield and, if the dipstick demonstrated, lubricate the pistons with one, perhaps two, quarts of oil; but only if the dipstick demonstrated.
Shaggy haired Wayne, pimply faced and eager, approached the driver’s side of the sedan where an unshaven man in his thirties sat hunched behind the wheel. The dutiful attendant stood at the rolled down window and invoked BP’s instructed salutation: “May I help you, sir?”
“Yeah,” the man said, throwing a glance at him. “Fill’er up, will ya?”
“Check the oil?”
“Nah.”
Wayne was a young man, like myself. Our parents and the rest of the world considered us teenagers, but we thought of ourselves as young men. In the summer of 1976, we were preparing to finish our final year of high school while trying to figure out who we are and what we wanted to do with our lives.
Wayne pulled the nozzle from the gas pump and twisted off the cap to the sedan’s fuel tank. I grabbed the water bottle, pulled a few blue paper towels from the white metal dispenser, and sprayed the windshield.
Under my sure hand, the blue towel swirled in motion across the glass. I glanced inside at a woman in the passenger seat. She smoked a cigarette in her peach-colored blouse, and masked her face in dark sunglasses. The driver’s wife, I assumed, but she could have been anyone. There’s more to a person – much more – than just what you see. That’s not something a seventeen-year-old entirely comprehends. People surprise you because you let them.
Breezy and sunny on a midsummer Sunday at the BP station, nestled in this tree-shaded Maryland suburb of Washington, D.C. We wore our jaunty jumpsuits, attendants to the wanting motorists of America’s roads, working for British Petroleum. The oil giant built this new station with two fuel pump islands, the latest concept in watering thirsty automobiles. We serviced the cars in requisitioned Kelly green jumpsuits, pulled over our blue jeans and T-shirts. Self-serve gas dispensaries were a few years away.
We made no repairs. We pumped gas. We washed windshields. We fed quart-size cans of oil into hungry engines. We smiled. We repeated BP’s required greeting, “May I help you?“ The station stood amid an urban area of shopping centers and apartment complexes a few miles from the Baltimore-Washington Parkway.
Between the pump islands stood the narrow attendant office, an oversized toll booth. The structure’s amenities were a standing-room-only, window-encased lobby and a tiny office hardly big enough for one person with a single bathroom not available to the public.
Hovering above it all, a giant flat-top canopy that flooded the night with light to be seen for miles, if not from orbit. Chuck, BP’s district manager, visited weekly to audit the books and collect the floor safe’s cash deposits. He argued the intense brightness was intentional.
“The company knows what it’s doing,” he said. “Light attracts customers.”
“Yeah, like moths to flame,” one of us said. The remark drew a laugh all around except from Chuck, who glared.
Chuck was a company man and the company did no wrong, even when it light-polluted the nighttime sky. He was ex-Marine and defied anyone to say America was anything less than the greatest country on earth.
When he worked at the desk in the toll booth office, a cold black metal handgun rested by his Styrofoam coffee cup. He trusted no one, he always told us, and we always figured he meant us, but we knew the ex-Marine liked us. We liked him, too.
Chuck was in his late twenties and treated us like we were the brothers he never had. He would offer unsolicited advice about love and drink, which we appreciated because with Chuck we had the experience of both.
Maria was Chuck’s girlfriend – shapely, gorgeous, flirtatious and slightly dangerous. On that day that BP finally elevates him to the high-paying position of regional manager, which he dutifully works toward, Maria would be his fiancée.
This is what he told us.
We were not sure he told Maria.
She often came to visit Chuck when he was at the station auditing the books. She always had a bright smile. We delighted in her preference of outfits – the short dresses that clung to her shape, or too-short shorts with tight low-cut blouses that gave the Catholic boys among us – and most of us were – the chance to venerate the plain gold cross that dangled between her cleavage.
At least that’s what we told Chuck whenever he caught one of us venerating. He fell for that line the first time one of us said it to him, but he wised up after that and would snarl, “Stop venerating my girl, pervert.”
While the chestnut-haired Maria and her choice of accentuated attire fulfilled our masturbatory fantasies, we figured her sultry persona had a singular purpose – she wanted to entice Chuck to make her his bride sooner rather than later.
Another high school pal who wore the BP uniform, Mike, had enlightened us. As goofy as this curly haired guy could be, Mike had insights into women and sex that we were only just starting to learn. He had two older sisters, one was married and the other was finishing college.
At first, we dismissed Mike’s observations. We would rather believe Maria was actually enticing us, willing to let one of us make love to her, if only her six-foot-two boyfriend in white muscle T-shirts and blue jeans wasn’t around.
“You guys are kiddin’ yourselves,” Mike said, leaning against my dark green ’67 Pontiac Le Mans coupe. He parked his washed-and-waxed blue Chevy, gleaming under the street lights, a good distance from the other vehicles.
It was Friday, near midnight after a busy shift. Four of us worked that evening. We had closed at eleven and stood around our cars parked in the corner of the station lot, now darkened except for nearby street lights. We drank the beers Chuck, with Maria sitting next to him in his Ford pick-up truck, dropped off earlier, reward for a month of outstanding profits that meant he would get his bonus.
“Nah, dude, she’s a tease,” said Daryl, a high school dropout a few years older than us and, it seemed, perpetually stoned. “I bet she’d do any one of us.”
“Oh yeah,” said Mike, as he sipped his beer. “You think she wants you?”
“If her dude weren’t around, man – ” Daryl began.
Mike interrupted him. “If Chuck wasn’t around she wouldn’t be around, and if she was and Chuck wasn’t you still wouldn’t get anywhere with her, none of us would.”
Daryl sneered. “Aww, man, she’d go for it, for sure.”
“You’re smoking too much weed; Maria loves Chuck – he’s a district manager, on his way to regional manager, making easily ten times the weekly pay you are. Why would she put out for some pump jockey who pulls a whopping seventy-five dollars – ”
“Eighty fifty!” Daryl snarled.
“Ok,” Mike said calmly, “why would she want a guy who just pumps gas for eighty bucks and fifty cents a week and still lives with his parents?”
“A chic wants to do it just as much as a dude,” Daryl argued.
“Yeah, but not with just any guy, with the right guy, and trust me, Daryl, you ain’t that guy,” Mike said. “Women are not like men, they’re … particular.”
To Wayne and me this made sense. It was one of those teenage moments when a piece of the female puzzle lodged into place. Daryl argued with Mike until he decided he had had enough and went home to his basement bedroom, where, we presumed, to smoke from his bong.
As we leaned against our cars and sipped beer, Mike giggled. “Daryl’s an idiot. The only thing he’ll ever lay is his pillow.”
A few minutes later Carl, a burly state policeman we knew from his routine checks of the station, drove up in his cruiser. His hairy forearm rested on the rolled-down window as the police radio crackled inside. He eyed us warily. “You boys know you shouldn’t be drinkin’.”
Mike grinned and offered Carl a beer, but he declined with a derisive laugh. “You’re just asking for trouble, buddy, aren’t you?”
Mike opened his mouth to answer when the police radio suddenly blared: “Unit twenty, a ten-sixty-three.”
Carl grabbed the mic: “Ten-five.”
Female voice: “We have a ten-fifty-four at three-oh-two – repeat three-oh-two – Locust Lane, Riverdale. Unit nine is responding as well.”
Carl: “Ten-ninety-eight.”
Female voice: Unit twenty, ten-forty-nine that address and be advised ten-zero.”
Carl: “Ten-four.”
The darkened lot suddenly blazed with dazzling reds, yellows and whites from rotating lights on the cruiser’s roof. Carl said to us, “Finish and go home. I don’t want to find you here when I come back.” He then sped off into the night.
“Where’s he going to, a murder?” I asked.
“Maybe,” said, Mike who had memorized police codes when he used to follow the town police calls on his father’s citizen band radio. “A ten-fifty-four is a possible dead body.”
We had no idea what had happened the night Carl was called to a dead body, but by the following weekend our curiosities were elsewhere – girls, school, fun and figuring out what we wanted to do with our lives.
It was another slow Sunday. Wayne and I were at work on the morning shift. Chuck had come in around ten-thirty to audit the books and was unhappy for some reason. He barked about the bathroom having not been cleaned the night before. We cleaned it.
I made a coffee-run to the diner down the street. When I returned, Wayne was under a car hood, checking the oil. It was the second customer of the morning. I put our coffees on the lobby counter and then knocked on the office door to hand Chuck his coffee. He opened the door, still in a sour mood, grumbled thanks, and closed it again.
I took my coffee to where Wayne was collecting cash from the customer when Maria came walking over from her car, parked at the side of the lot. She had just pulled in and was walking toward me in short shorts, tight low-cut blouse and high heels. Her smile melted me.
“Is Chuck in?” she asked, sweetly.
I tried my best not to venerate her and nodded toward the station.
“Thank you,” she said.
Wayne walked over to me. We watched as Maria knocked lightly on the office door. We heard Chuck bark something, and Maria respond, “It’s me, honey.” The door swung open, Maria smiled. She said something we could not hear, then disappeared inside, the door shut hard behind her. Wayne and I looked at each other in wonderment.
“You don’t think?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I breathed.
“Not much room in there.”
“Yeah, not much.”
Traffic suddenly picked up. In the fuel business, customers arrive in waves, and many of the drivers, and the passenger filling their vehicles, were well-dressed for Sunday. We knew the church services ended. Cars lined up. We would have welcomed an extra hand, but neither of us was willing to interrupt Chuck. Forty minutes later, the wave passed.
Wayne and I hung out around one of the pump islands to give Chuck and Maria privacy for whatever they were doing in there. Finally, they emerged from the office. They both looked happy and in love. Chuck walked her to her car and kissed her goodbye. “I’ll see you in a little while, baby.” He watched her leave then went over to his pick-up truck, revved the engine, and then wheeled it over to where we were standing.
“You guys need anything?” he asked, cheerfully, unable to stop smiling.
We shook our heads.
“I’ll see you in a couple days,” he said. Before his pick-up roared out of the station, he advised, “Call Don, if you need anything.”
Smiling Don was in his first year at the community college and the part-time assistant manager. Chuck admired him. Don had all-American good looks, blond hair always perfectly blow-dried. He drove a Chevy Camaro muscle car, and always dated beautiful girls. Yes, we envied him.
Despite endless patriotic prattle about God and country, Don was hardly the upstanding citizen he pretended around Chuck. Don stole from customers. His trick: short stick – wipe oil off the dipstick, show the customer she needed a quart, then take an empty can and pretend to pour it into the engine.
Arrogant and greedy, Don often told customers they needed two, even on occasion three, quarts. He got away with it every time except once when the customer glared at him and said, “I just had the oil changed yesterday. Check it again!” Don managed to squirm out of that. He told the man that he may not have pushed the dipstick in all the way.
After he bragged about the money he made from his scam he realized he had put himself in jeopardy. If one of us told Chuck he might lose his job. So, Don tried to get everyone to steal. Most of the guys went along, but I refused, mostly because I was afraid I would get caught. My refusal made Don angry.
“Forget about drinking with us after shift,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“You can’t be trusted,” he said.
Don was my first introduction to work politics – want to get along? Go along.
We never called Don, that day or any other day. We never felt the need to call him.
A few days later, Chuck and Maria stopped by the station. He was in a dark suit and she in a long-hemmed dress. They announced they were engaged. We never again saw Maria wear anything as seductive as what she wore that Sunday morning.
It was another Sunday morning, a week before we headed back to school. Wayne and I leaned against the station wall to enjoy the steady breeze when the customer we called “Top-It-Off” pulled up to the far pumps.
“Top-It-Off” came in for gas every other day, jumping out of his car, grabbing the metal nozzle, refusing to allow anyone to pump his fuel. He was middle-aged, had an awkward walk, and slurred his words. We assumed he was an alcoholic, always seemed drunk. We called him “Top-It-Off” because that’s what he said every time he jumped out of his car: “Jist ‘ere to top-it-off.” The first time I met him, I tried to pump his gas, but he refused, saying as he took the nozzle from my hands, “No, I’ll do it, jist want to top-it-off.”
As “Top-It-Off” went about pulling back the license plate, where Pontiac had you fill the tank, and putting what little gas he needed into his tank, we walked over to talk to him. “Top-It-Off” had the trunk open. Inside were three large gas cans.
“What’s with all the cans?” Wayne asked.
“Top-It-Off” said nothing. He made sure the gas was just below the top of the tank, and then turned his attention to the cans. When he finished, he tightly turned the caps on each can, then turned each one upside down to make sure they were sealed properly and securely.
“Worried about running out of gas?” I asked.
“Top-It-Off” ignored me.
Wayne looked at me, shrugged, and said to him, loudly, “Sir?”
The man turned his head and looked surprised, as if he had suddenly noticed us. He cupped his ear, and said, “What’s that? Didn’t hear you.”
Wayne said, “Why do you come in every other day to fill your car with gas?”
“Top-It-Off” looked at us curiously. “Don’t want to run out of gas; can’t run out of gas.” Without another word, he opened his wallet, pulled out cash, and paid for his fuel. He gave us a self-conscious nod, then climbed back into his car and drove away.
A moment later another car rolled under the canopy and crossed the rubber hose that rang the station bell. It was Carl, the state trooper. His cruiser pulled into the space at the pump where “Top-It-Off” had been a moment earlier. Carl’s arrival reminded us the last time he was here. We asked about the possible dead body he went to investigate that night.
“What’re you talking about?” he asked, looking at us quizzically.
“Last time you were here you were called to a ten-fifty-four,” I reminded him.
Carl nodded. “Oh, yeah, that’s right.”
“Was it a murder?” Wayne asked.
“Nah, guy had a heart attack sitting on his porch swing, neighbors didn’t notice him for a couple of hours.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, it happens.” Carl shrugged, changed the subject. “See you were talking to Stan.”
“Stan?”
“The guy in the Pontiac who just left,” Carl said.
“The drunk guy? ‘Top-It-Off?’ You know him?” Wayne asked.
Carl gave him a hard look. “What makes you think Stan drinks?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Wayne said, now unsure about his judgement. “I mean, he staggers when he walks and he always slurs his words.”
The trooper shut off his engine and picked up his radio mic. “I have a ten-seven-B.”
Female voice: “Ten-four, unit twenty.”
He turned to us. “Ok, I got about fifteen minutes; let me tell you about Stan.”
Carl’s story about “Top-It-Off” began five years earlier. Stan had run out of gas on the BW Parkway one night, miles from the nearest exit or telephone. It was late. He tried to wave down the few cars on the road until finally a van pulled over to help. Two young guys in front. They told him to go around and climb into the back. As he opened one of the twin doors, four burly guys sitting inside greeted him. They were drinking, smoking cigarettes and dope.
They were friendly. They joked. They offered him a beer, but he declined. They turned ugly. They demanded money. Stan nervously struggled to get his wallet out of his pant pocket. One of the guys socked him in the jaw because he moved too slowly. Once Stan gave them his cash, they proceeded to beat him senseless with their fits. One of them used a hammer on him, striking his knees and head. When they finished pummeling him, they kicked him out the twin back doors as the van traveled at fifty miles per hour.
“Found Stan not too far from the parkway exit up the road here,” Carl said. “I was on patrol; almost ran over him. He could barely crawl. He looks probably fifteen years older than he actually is. These guys broke so many bones in his legs they permanently disabled him. The hit him in the head so many times they damaged his brain; his hearing. It’s a miracle he can function. No, Stan doesn’t drink.”
Wayne nodded. “That’s why – ”
“Yeah,” said Carl. “That’s why he walks and talks funny. For months, Stan had no memory of the attack or who he was. He remembers little of that night.”
“So, that’s why he’s always topping off the tank” I said.
Carl nodded and gave me a look that said, yeah that’s right knucklehead.
“Stan never lets his car get below the full-tank mark. He travels no more than twenty miles from home. What he remembers of that night keeps him in fear. He lives and drives in fear; probably will the rest of his life.”
Wayne and I stood speechless as a strong breeze blew through the station.
“Been five years,” Carl said. He turned the ignition key and the cruiser’s powerful engine roared. He reflected. “I’ve tried to find his attackers, but doubt I ever will.” He put the cruiser in gear. “Well, you guys take care,” he said. “Gotta go.”
We watched the cruiser’s brake lights glow red before the vehicle turned onto the road, headed in the direction of the BW Parkway. Wayne looked at me soberly. “Life lesson number one: don’t run out of gas.” I just nodded as another customer pulled into the station.
For years, Stan’s story stayed with me as a warning to heed. I would soon have enough life experiences to teach me that no amount of precaution, even topping off the fuel tank every other day, guaranteed anything. Eventually, we find ourselves running on empty with only wit and determination to get us through, and even that may not be enough.
On a blustery cold afternoon that winter in our senior year of high school, Carl stopped by the station with news. Stan had been killed in a car accident. A drunk driver rear-ended him near his house. The gas cans in his trunk exploded. Flames immediately engulfed the vehicle.
Grim faced, Carl shook his head. “He never had a chance.”
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