Wilson's Gas Stop

As I stand behind the counter the scent of Big Mac’s and Chicken Nuggets overwhelm the store and clog my nostrils with grease. The only thing that passes this barrier is the gasoline that lingers on hands as bills and greetings are exchanged. The smell is such a part of me that without it I feel uncomfortable. It’s a personalized brand of drug that I need to function. Having it in my body keeps me alive and losing it would make me seize. Fresh air doesn’t exist here. It’s an unheard of idea that only makes sense to a select few. This dependency ridden place functions like an equation. Taking any part away will give you the wrong answer. Following the equation is fundamental to running the shop smoothly.

The constant ringing of timers and cash registers occur so often that you hear them when you’re not there. It’s a buzzing whistle that follows you around like a mental illness. It attacks even when you’re most prepared. When you’ve finally escaped into silence it sneaks in and stabs you. I need to escape, but the demonic intuition stays with me wherever I go. This insanity causes you to turn into a robot, automatically responding to stop the ringing anyway you can.

It looks like a giant threw up blue and this is what came out. Every shade of aqua, turquoise and denim surround me like a cage. Even now, blue surroundings cause me to react like a child caught in a lie. I need to avoid capture. The only relief of blue is the pink, purple and yellow slushies swimming around and around. It continually laps around the container, trying to improve on every stroke. The cycle pulls you in like a fat person in a Speedo. You know it’s something that you shouldn’t look at but you just can’t stop. It’s an experience that breathes lust into your world, forever drawing you back to its enchantment.

Once the shock of blue fades, the store turns into a smoker’s dream. It’s the ultimate selection of cigarettes from all over the world - a true dynasty. There are exotic ones that smell lustrous and soothing. There are classic ones that are harsh and arouse your nostrils. Others are ridden with menthol and the scent is confined to the walls of its carton. They’re tossed around and tainted by the hands of staff yet are still praised by the religious customers who come just to taste its glory. We as staff are gatekeepers to this religion and are key in the monetary sacrifice. The physical barrier between staff and customers only accentuates this position of authority. It stands between us like limbo, separating two worlds yet is connected by one simple act.