Gas Station Blues

After watching Talladega Nights at the theater, I went to a gas station nearby to get some gas in the car. I walked inside and noticed two guys before me standing at the counter, waiting for the checker. The checker woman came out of the bathroom and hobbled over to the counter.

“Sorry, I was trying to get the swelling down,” she said. The checker was an older white woman with brown hair with traces of gray on the sides. She was overweight and had a few chins for good measure. She wasn’t a pleasant sight to look at, but then again neither am I.

Swelling down? I don’t want to even know, I thought.

One of the guys leaned over and looked at her forehead. “Whoa, it looks like a bee sting.”

“I hit my head,” she said, sheepishly rubbing her forehead. She gave no further information.

Was it on the headboard on your bed? Was this a wound of lovemaking? Please get that thought out of my head.

The two guys got what they wanted from the clerk and moved on. I was next.

After placing a 20 on the counter, I slid it to her. “Give me, 10 on pump 7,” I said, trying my best not to look at her.

She pulled her hair back from her head and showed her wound. “It doesn’t look that bad does it?” she asked me.

I started getting nervous. I looked at her wound, and it was very noticeable. “You can hardly notice it,” I lied, wanting to dart for the doorway.

As if not believing a word I said, she gave me a strange look before giving me my change.

I left the gas station confused and disgusted. Why do all the crazy people work in gas stations?