The Pump

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It was a few minutes after four am when I pulled into a Chevron only to find that they were closed for “technical difficulties” with their computer system. The guy was mopping the floor and didn’t pay much attention to the downed register. Now I had to venture onto foreign ground… Am/Pm. I hated going to Am/Pm. Those fools only employ retards that haven’t got the slightest regard for customer service not to mention the vast collection of people begging for money and/or gas. The last thing I want to deal with is a shitty story of bad luck and hard times. I needed gas and I had to get to work soon, so I sucked it up and hit up an Arco on my way. Of course, after telling you about the  morons behind the counter, the attendant I encountered that day was surprisingly polite.

“Anything else boss?”

He called me boss.

He was a middle aged middle eastern man clinging to youth with his earrings, his fake flashy watch, and his iPhone sat on the counter in some overly bulky case softly playing top forty hip-hop. It wasn’t loud, but it was loud enough for any customer at the counter to hear. The worst was the terrible part in his thick black hair. It cut right down the middle of his scalp and his hairs length wasn’t enough to do the style any justice. This guy was just awkward. He was friendly though, even with the dorky smile pasted across his face. Anyway, fucktard called me boss, I hate it when people call me boss. Don’t know why really—just do. I couldn’t really hold it against the guy, he was just trying to fit in, and for some dumb reason, boss is making a comeback. Every jerk-off round here calls me boss. Fucking shoot me already.

I slid my card and agreed to pay those bastards that thirty-five cent fee. When I pulled out the nozzle, there was a nice big blank spot on the gas pump staring me in the face and it was asking—no, begging for a sticker.

I could hear it, Hey  you, slap one of those big dicks on me, please!

Hold on just a sec, I think this might require a little bit context. I’m not some weirdo who can’t get any, well I ain’t got none in a min, but that’s not the point. I’m not a perv obsessed with the baloney ponies—really, I’m not. I’m what you might call a street artist, well not really, but I’d fit somewhere under that category, I guess. I do use the hashtag street art on Instagram a lot. But that doesn’t classify me one of those guys. My anxiety won’t allow me to get down, or get up as they say—I’m a wannabe.

Anyway, I glanced around, then reached inside my truck and pulled from a stash of homemade stickers composed of an original stencil spray painted onto blank thermal labels. I always have Long Dong Silvers on deck to slap up—always. There were no cameras, so I peeled that sticker back and slapped that big boy up there. I rubbed it in real good making sure that it had a solid grip. I chuckled to myself thinking about how I was rubbing a dick out, and then the next person to pull up to that particular pump. The nozzle stopped.

CLANK!

As I reached for it, I noticed in the short distance four deputy sheriffs next to two cop cars in the darkness of the closed carwash driveway. I almost died instantly from a panic attack. Four o’clock in the morning and my body would be found in a pair of dirty drawls. What? I forgot to do laundry. Like you ain’t never did that. When I realized that I hadn’t died, and that I hadn’t had a heart attack either, I tried to catch my breath and calm down.

It was just like “The Commode Story” from Reservoir Dogs. Freddy walked into a restroom with a carry-on bag full of weed while he waited for the other half of the deal only to find four Deputy Sheriffs and a German Shepard hanging out. They all stopped dead in their conversation and stared at him and the dog barked on high alert. Freddy was ready to take it on all fours…

Well it wasn’t exactly like that, but that’s how it felt. Through the shadows I could feel each of them staring death at me along the clean line of sight. They seemed to continue with their conversation with the occasional glance over. I put the nozzle away and climbed back inside my truck as goose bumps invaded my body.

This was it, I thought. I kept a close eye on them through the mirrors, but they stood babbling about being super powered dicks or something, I don’t know, didn’t give a fuck either. It wasn’t long before I realized they weren’t coming. They had to have seen me. I drove out of the parking lot like a law abiding citizen, and out of nowhere, two more deputy cars, lights flashing and all, screeched into the parking-lot.

“Fuck me.”

But those assholes weren’t coming for me. They sandwiched in a big old Cadillac parked at a pump. I pulled out of the parking-lot as all the focus was on that poor sucker. As soon as I cleared their visual, I floored it to the freeway in an attempt to put as much distance between us as possible, just in case these guys were just screwing with me and coming for me after all. I had to get to work. I didn’t want to listen to music or anything. The anxiety levels dropped, but I was pissed. How could I have not seen them? I almost got busted and it wouldn’t have been worth it. I’d have to stand before some judge and explain why the hell I decided to go draw dicks all over her city. No answer would make sense at all. Not to any of those suited clowns. None of those douche bags would get me. They’d have made me and nailed me for all the other dongs I’ve thrown up around town, throw more time at me than some thug catching a case for violence, and then stick me with some unfairly overpriced restoration bill. I’d have lost my job, my apartment, my truck and all my belongings. They’d find all the dicks stickers and posters in my place and paint a picture of me as the disturbed kid who lived next door.

Maybe there was a God.

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