I admired your black classic Dodge. It must have been from the 60's or early 70's as you pulled behind me in the gas station. I don't see guys like you in LA. I don't even know how to categorize you. Beatnik? Richard Brautigan style? That high whiny voice. But soft, gentle. Counter-culture, when there was just one culture.
You were pissed, and rightly so. The traffic was a clusterfuck. The gas pump was out of order. I had to back my turbo in wrong-way to reach pumpside. I heard you cursing. I'm just one of the young-ones. Ruining the memories of the past, I think, as I start speaking. Telling you I was almost finished, that I can back out, that you can have my pump in a moment.
At least this gas station has invested in the super fast pumps. A few more miles of my magical elixir are transferred into my exobody. I wave off the others trying to block me in. Lying. You and your black Dodge are a picture. I skim my eyes over it, lest to stare. But it's like water to a sponge. Those few moments, I can't forget.
And then I'm gone. A final glimpse of you pulling forward, as I back out and onto 19th Ave traffic. The shiny black and chrome. From another era.
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