tell how old—eight, ten, twelve—sat in the back, his face buried in a Green Hornet comic book.
I took a deep breath and choked on the gas fumes. How long had I been standing there? Five minutes? Twenty? A man came out of the ladies’ room carrying a suitcase. He cut across the black asphalt to the city bus stop and sat down on the bench.
Both the male and female patrons who stopped here to use the facilities had to use the ladies’ room. The toilet in the men’s had been clogged for years. Even if the proprietor of the Chevron, Mr. August Van Gilder, made an effort to keep the restroom clean (and quite obviously, it wasn’t a priority), two hundred and fifty people probably used that toilet in the course of one business day. And like the man with the suitcase, probably half those people didn’t even buy any gas.
I’d been one of those freeloading Chevron-toilet-users enough times to know. Not that I went out of my way to relieve myself here. A person only took a leak at the Chevron out of sheer desperation. Mr. Van Gilder must have thought his mechanics had more important things to do than mop up urine and refill the paper towel dispenser all day. But that would be my job now. Probably not what Di Carlo meant by valuable work experience.
I filled my lungs with another airless breath and forced myself to walk toward the body shop. There was no door on the dingy little office inside. A guy in his twenties with an Adam’s apple that made him look like he’d swallowed a hamster stood behind the counter. He was sifting through a little metal box filled with dirty, dog-eared index cards. A rusty old fan was blowing behind him. It wasn’t doing much, just rustling the invoices tacked to the bulletin board next to him. An orange rag covered in grease hung out of the pocket of his mechanic’s jumpsuit. I rested my hands on the counter and noticed how clean my fingernails were.
The guy—Wes, according to his jumpsuit—did not look up. I opened my mouth to speak but Wes held up his hand to stop me. Wes continued to alphabetize. He’d put “Scott, Philip” before “Schwartz, Dave.” I stood there, obediently. I would be lower down the food chain than Wes. Wes, the mechanic with the freakish Adam’s apple who couldn’t alphabetize.
Maybe I’d just tell Wes to go screw himself, I thought. I’d tell August Van Gilder, “Thank you very much but I’ve been elected junior class representative to the Beverly Hills High Student Council. And between that and tutoring those foster kids, Mr. Van Gilder, I’m just not going to have time to pump your goddamn gas and clean your goddamn ladies’ room. You see Mr. Van Gilder, I have a real shot at Stanford. And Yale’s not out of the question.”
Wes finally looked up at me.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Van Gilder,” I said.
My interview went well. Van Gilder hired me on the spot.
I walked around back to the ladies’ room and changed into my jumpsuit.
On the way home, crossing the hot black asphalt at the intersection of Doheny and Olympic, I pretended I was walking across some snow-covered quad. I imagined I was surrounded by Gothic buildings and girls in Fair Isle sweaters.
I didn’t see the Mercedes turn into the crosswalk in front of me. The guy driving didn’t care that I had the right of way. He leaned on his horn, stuck his head out his window and yelled at me, “Stupid little pisher!”
I flipped him off, but it was too late. He was long gone. My fantasy had gone south too. Best-case scenario: I’d get a free ride to UCLA, live at home, and work at the Chevron. Eventually, I guess you got used to the fumes.
New York, 1994 . I don’t remember coming back from shock this morning. I know it must have happened. I must have awakened, heavy-headed and confused and no doubt nauseous in the ECT suite. That’s what they call it—a suite. Someone in the hospital’s PR department must have spent quite a while paging through a thesaurus in search of
I took a deep breath and choked on the gas fumes. How long had I been standing there? Five minutes? Twenty? A man came out of the ladies’ room carrying a suitcase. He cut across the black asphalt to the city bus stop and sat down on the bench.
Both the male and female patrons who stopped here to use the facilities had to use the ladies’ room. The toilet in the men’s had been clogged for years. Even if the proprietor of the Chevron, Mr. August Van Gilder, made an effort to keep the restroom clean (and quite obviously, it wasn’t a priority), two hundred and fifty people probably used that toilet in the course of one business day. And like the man with the suitcase, probably half those people didn’t even buy any gas.
I’d been one of those freeloading Chevron-toilet-users enough times to know. Not that I went out of my way to relieve myself here. A person only took a leak at the Chevron out of sheer desperation. Mr. Van Gilder must have thought his mechanics had more important things to do than mop up urine and refill the paper towel dispenser all day. But that would be my job now. Probably not what Di Carlo meant by valuable work experience.
I filled my lungs with another airless breath and forced myself to walk toward the body shop. There was no door on the dingy little office inside. A guy in his twenties with an Adam’s apple that made him look like he’d swallowed a hamster stood behind the counter. He was sifting through a little metal box filled with dirty, dog-eared index cards. A rusty old fan was blowing behind him. It wasn’t doing much, just rustling the invoices tacked to the bulletin board next to him. An orange rag covered in grease hung out of the pocket of his mechanic’s jumpsuit. I rested my hands on the counter and noticed how clean my fingernails were.
The guy—Wes, according to his jumpsuit—did not look up. I opened my mouth to speak but Wes held up his hand to stop me. Wes continued to alphabetize. He’d put “Scott, Philip” before “Schwartz, Dave.” I stood there, obediently. I would be lower down the food chain than Wes. Wes, the mechanic with the freakish Adam’s apple who couldn’t alphabetize.
Maybe I’d just tell Wes to go screw himself, I thought. I’d tell August Van Gilder, “Thank you very much but I’ve been elected junior class representative to the Beverly Hills High Student Council. And between that and tutoring those foster kids, Mr. Van Gilder, I’m just not going to have time to pump your goddamn gas and clean your goddamn ladies’ room. You see Mr. Van Gilder, I have a real shot at Stanford. And Yale’s not out of the question.”
Wes finally looked up at me.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Van Gilder,” I said.
My interview went well. Van Gilder hired me on the spot.
I walked around back to the ladies’ room and changed into my jumpsuit.
On the way home, crossing the hot black asphalt at the intersection of Doheny and Olympic, I pretended I was walking across some snow-covered quad. I imagined I was surrounded by Gothic buildings and girls in Fair Isle sweaters.
I didn’t see the Mercedes turn into the crosswalk in front of me. The guy driving didn’t care that I had the right of way. He leaned on his horn, stuck his head out his window and yelled at me, “Stupid little pisher!”
I flipped him off, but it was too late. He was long gone. My fantasy had gone south too. Best-case scenario: I’d get a free ride to UCLA, live at home, and work at the Chevron. Eventually, I guess you got used to the fumes.
New York, 1994 . I don’t remember coming back from shock this morning. I know it must have happened. I must have awakened, heavy-headed and confused and no doubt nauseous in the ECT suite. That’s what they call it—a suite. Someone in the hospital’s PR department must have spent quite a while paging through a thesaurus in search of
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