Tuesday, March 28, 2006

29 Miles to Empty in a Nice Dress

From Traveling Letters by A. Brown Girl
Copyright (c) 2005 Yolonda "Coffeedreamz" Coleman

It was summer. The heat scorched the pavement on Annapolis Road and probably dried up my gas tank since I was confident I filled it up a moon’s light ago. Keith, a former classmate, had some car trouble and needed me to give him a ride. I obliged and hooked a U to head in the opposite direction. Bing! Bing! Bing! The gas alert sang its usual song. I was unemployed at the time and had to make a decision. Food or gas? I chose the latter only because Keith needed me. So, I make a stop at the friendly neighborhood gas thief, the gas station to ensure a safe arrival.

I rush to put the car in park and run inside to put “twenty on it.” I had a wedgie and tried to be discreet by twisting my hips and cheeks really hard to bring relief to my backside. There were people around. I thought it would be a little rude to walk with my hand up my rear in my Sunday best. I reached the attendant area with a huge smile because I’m wedgie free.

“Nice dress,” the gas attendant compliments me in an East Afrikan accent. “Are you married?” One eye brow rises while the other slouches down with concern. That question came out of his underarm. He anxiously awaits my answer.

“No. I’m not. Twenty on 3, please.” I commence to walk toward the door, but another question shoots me in the back of my head like a rock.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.” I’m but a second from touching the door handle.

“And you’re not married?” The audience in my head is laughing hysterically and I suddenly felt like I missed the bus because I didn’t have a husband. He then follows up with, “I can’t believe someone as beautiful as you is not married. No boyfriend?”

I was five seconds shy of twisting my neck and shaking my finger in his face. This conversation was the only thing standing in the way of him turning on pump number three. Keith was waiting, but I didn’t have any gas. The other alternative was to ride on E until I found another service station. That was not a likely option seeing that the little orange oil can had been dancing since the day before. I decided to be cool. .

“Nope.” I hurry my steps only to be shot in the back with more conversation about my current single situation.

“I don’t understand, you’re just so beautiful. Well look, I’m married,” he begins by showing me his wedding band, “but my wife’s immigration papers may take four years.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that.” My hand is on the door handle.

“Hey, wait, can you come back and speak to me after you finish pumping your gas?”

“Sir, I really have to…”

“Listen, if you give me your heart…”

WHAT? Give him my what? Is he getting ready to proposition me? I block out the full sentences he struggles through because of nervousness and the sound of breaks screeching on both sides of my brain. I do, however, manage to hear, “wife…four years…wife…you…wife…me…” The rest was blah blah blah.

In a nutshell, Mr. Attendant was asking me to have an affair with him. He was asking for my heart? It’s not like he dropped a leather brief case down full of 100s and a slimline cocktail dress with a reservation for two at the Taj Mahal (not that I'd take it 'cause that is not of God...AMEN?). Here I am in good ole PG County Maryland at a gas station talking to a man with dirty nails, a wife, and an offer to be his concubine at the expense of one of my most valuable possessions, my heart.

“Are you serious?”

“Look, let me give you my number.”

“I have to run.”

I hurry to pump my gas. I thought the twenty would fill it up. Wrong. I have to go back in. Yeah, I know you’re’asking. Why don’t you pick up Keith and get gas later? You’re right. I just thought I could make it quick with money in hand and dip (still naive at 29).

“Here, you’re going to call me, right?” Mr. Attendant drops a receipt on the counter with his name and telephone number. Ahmed Abdulrajim AkbahBin Laden.

“God isn’t going to like this. I’m sorry, but…”

“No, listen.”

“I’m sorry, I have to go.” I’m trying to be as nice as I can. What I want to say is, Dude, you’re crazy. Exercise self control and wack off until your wife gets her papers. My cookies aren’t for lease.”

I drop a $5 bill on the counter and head toward the door. There is a gentleman on the other side with a plastered smile. He shows chivalry and allows me to pass through the Plexiglas first.

“Nice dress,” he comments. As I’m walking away I feel the heat on my backside. It wasn’t the sun but two sets of eyes burning through my dress, global warming had begun. An Afrikan and an American with blazing eyes on my hemisphere.

I think I’m home free until I notice Ahmed is busy with the new customer. I then hear the door swing open. Ahmed is running to catch me.

“Call me, okay,” he has made his intentions public. I get in the car. I drive off with no response. I can never go to that station again.

Time was ticking and Keith was waiting. I called his cell. When I turned the corner into the neighborhood where he was stranded, Keith had already begun his sojourn toward the main street. He answers as I drive beside him.

“Hi Keith. Sorry I took so long.”

“It’s okay, I was trying to make it to the store. Turns out I just need a battery.”

“I guess I came just in time.” We hang up our phones and I open the door to let Keith in the car. He sits in the passenger seat and reaches to hug me with the emergency break between us.

“Good to see you,” I said.

“You too, Brown.” He points. Nice dress. Sigh!