NO CHANGE
Along a road, a road that doesn't really go anywhere, a road along the outskirts of town, though it seems like there’s hardly anymore outskirts anymore, just one town running on into another. Along this road there’s an old gas station. It’s been out there by itself for as long as anyone can remember. Somebody lost their gamble, thinking houses would get built out there on the east side. The only reason the station's still standing is because no one ever wanted to build out there, out there on the edge of town. That will change but it hasn’t yet. They built the old gas station on that lot years ago, waiting for development, some kind of development. The freeway went somewhere else, and so did the new houses.
A long time ago many thought it modern, with the Art Deco spire rising from the center of the building, with futuristic scallops, slabs and ridges. The faded shadows of the corporate letters run along the ridges, the letters gone years ago, replaced in turn by one Ozymadias of Oil after another. Now, it’s mostly a garage, his uncle seemingly the only one who still buys gas there. Customers park their crippled clunkers under one of the two giant wings that jut from the main building and wait for good repairs at modest prices.
Under the other wing stands the last gas pump, with a little glass ball on top, with a spinning top in it to indicate gas flow. As a kid, when he went hunting with Dad and Uncle, it was the first stop, open twenty four hours. Today, it smells of grease and dust and years, years of grease and dust, decades of grease and dust, centuries of industry. . . . Sometimes, when his uncle passes time there, he leans against the wall, lost in the postwar memory of when he was an ace mechanic for the city and drove precision-tuned Detroit masterpieces.
The old red Coke machine still dispenses bottles, maybe the only one in the region. The bottles are all scratched and scarred, with a few chips out of them, here and there. The back shelf stocks out dated maps; guidelines to roads, many of which no longer exist. Hung over the phone, a paper thin petite blonde spills out over her meager bikini, with the name of some sparkplug company below, and a calendar stapled to her toes as a kind of after thought.
It’s the only place his uncle will buy gas, from its third generation owner. Few are certain of the young owner's name. Each new day, his coveralls have a different name sewn above the left pocket, changing names with every change of clothes. He’s got an extensive archive of mechanic overall in the back, identified by name labels of dozens and dozens of departed wrench monkeys. A guy’s place, it doesn’t have a restroom. It has a can. It’s not really repugnant, but it isn’t intended for women, or “wimmen,” as the owner calls them. “I’m sorry M’am, but we don’t really have a ladies room.” Male chauvinism in its most subtle, polite, and traditional form, kind of like the last barber shop, the one with antlers over the mirror, mercenary magazines stacked on the table and maybe some very suggestive but not even close to explicit soft core exploitation stashed low in the stack.
No blow driers allowed.
His uncle goes there often. Sometimes he drives, sometimes he gets a ride. When he pulls out his wallet to pay for the fill-up, he clicks his tongue and always says: “Five dollars used to fill it up, and I’d get some change for Life Savers.” Sometimes he says it with a laugh, sometimes with a trace of regret.
That afternoon, needing to deal with trivial family issues, he searches for his uncle at all the familiar places, eventually spotting his car here at the pump and finds him standing in the open field across from the station.
From his own car he watches his uncle, standing there, hands in his pockets, his thin frame almost swaying with the afternoon wind, everything grey under the summer overcast. He turns and walks to the station office, takes out his wallet and pays for his gas.
"Don't ever say those things about your father," he remembers his uncle saying, "he was a fine man, just trying to do his best."
In spite of what his uncle said, there were the secrets. It took the nephew a long time, but he eventually found out what he needed to know. He went to the library and found the articles. He went to city hall and got a copy of the report of record. He saw the pictures. He knew the family’s real names. The names had been changed, but the deeds had been done.
He sees his uncle walk from the grassy field back to the station, eyes fixed on his well kept but rather aged Detroit specimen. The nephew gets out of his car, and follows his uncle into the station. He passes through the office, passing the sliding metal door with cracked glass, going into the garage, stopping at the old Ferris wheel candy machine. As he gets there, his uncle puts some money in and turns the knob, once chromed, now showing brass. A pack of Life Savers, the wrapper faded by sun, falls into the tray. He picks it up and turns, now knowing his nephew's there. There’s no need for greetings. They know each other too well. As he starts to leave, a small cascade of dimes and nickels pours from the side of the machine.
“Uncle, is that your money?” he asks. “Do you want your change.”
“Naw, I don’t want any change. I never wanted any change.”