The Gas Station, Fall 2019
The French guy who works at the Hornby gas station –
We were suspicious of each other
and shot side-eye glances.
Uncannily familiar.
I knew him.
Were we foolish in a field thirty years ago?
Did he live in Whistler?
Maybe Nelson?
Lollapalooza 92?
Super grunge – can’t tell if he’s stuck in the 90s or bringing it back.
Probably both.
Late 40s, maybe.
Long salt and peppery hair – always in a low pony.
High cheekbones
Strong features
Slim and fit
Wore white waffle long-john shirts under t-shirts
- usually some death metal band.
I know this because I asked him about his shirts
– and then I ran out the door.
His garbage dump green ten-speed
leaned against the brown tile wall
beside the front door.
He drove an old blue Volvo wagon – last washed in 1994.
Coexist noncompliant.
The one time I saw him outside of working hours,
he got out of his car with bare feet so dirty they were black.
It was Fall, and he was wearing jeans.
Had a partner.
He built a little farm.
Super hot.
One day, when I bought an ice cream sandwich out of boredom,
he asked me if I was Danish.
Our only attempt at prolonged conversation
other than 4.25.
I told him I was Norwegian and French,
and asked him why.
He said I seemed
very familiar.
With a mouth of rocks and cotton
-
You too.
We threw around some locales where
we could’ve met,
but there were none.
And there we have it.
I knew that guy from somewhere, and he knew me.
And that was that.
Maybe we met at a gig?
Oh well
C
Ya
