Five-forty-five a.m. gas station blues:

I put in thirty five dollars to last me two days. While the gas is pumping I put an old dress-shirt in the charity bin. I’ve wrapped the shirt in a plastic grocery store bag in accordance with the hieroglyphics on the container. The pump has a new sticker warning about sparks from static electricity. Does that happen? Do businesses explode from the static spark? I suppose there is always the potential.

Inside the station I buy water. I guess I really buy the container, the purification and the shipping. The pit bull in the station smells my dog Sebastian on me and he follows me growling. During the day the dog is behind the counter, but at night he is free range.

I am a dog guy. I handle him. But he’s a big brown pit bull, one hundred percent jaw, so I worry a bit, but don’t show it. Doesn’t’ matter, he senses my worry. Dogs are conservative and this one is a racist. In my favor I am white and have dog smell, but the long hair is a problem. Dobermans, German Sheppards and Pits all have a hard time with either long hair or hats. The real problem is the faint whiff of fear. Mental note: kick for the neck if it comes to that.

That’s the vignette. Then there’s the drive.