I wrote this in 2002 back before I got all fancy like I am now.;-)

The story is true of course. I am about 24 in this story (1980′s) driving a Frito truck and living in that house I just posted about.  The story is called, Gas Pump and boy do I crack myself up.

The woman in this story is Leon’s ex-wife for those who track this stuff. Remember she surfaced after 25 years during my Pluto Moon transit…

(has swearing)

Gas Pump

I was in my Frito truck, it was late in the afternoon, another hot day in the desert. I stopped for gas at a station along the highway before I left the little desert town and I met a man.  He was right there at the pump and we got to chatting. He said he was from the city and then asked if I would like to go to a concert with him.

I thought about it for a second and then smiled and told him no.  He just didn’t flip my lid but then he started begging.

Well, he started selling and begging, I mean. He told me this was a major show.  He told me how hard it was to get tickets and like I said, he begged.

Meanwhile I finished pumping my gas  so I had to make a decision on the spot, to go or not to go. I agreed to go. It was going to be a Saturday night and I said I would meet him at his house.

I’d never heard of the guy playing so I thought I should investigate. I’d be coming from my little town into the city for the date.  I wanted to stay overnight so I called a pal who lived there, to ask if she knew who this artist was and  also to find out if it would be okay if I stayed at her house.

See, I wasn’t going to sleep with this guy,  at least I didn’t think I was.  Maybe I’d get down there and like him but you know me. If I’m interested, I pretty much know it in 4 seconds, so while I thought it was possible but doubtful.

I kind of hoped I was wrong for his sake. You know what I mean. He seemed pretty enamored with me but I was just going on the date because I felt sorry for him. And for the adventure, of course. I figured he’d bought these tickets and then couldn’t get a date so I was pretty much stepping in to save face for him. In whatever case I thought it was very unlikely I would be staying at his house so I called a gal pal in the city.

“Who is George Strait?”  I asked.

“Hmm. I don’t know. I’ve seen that name on jukeboxes though. I think it’s jazz.”

“Jazz, huh?” This was before jazz made the comeback that it has. It was a real fringe thing at the time, it had just start gaining momentum. “Well, I don’t know anything about jazz but whatever,” I said. “He said this guy is a big deal.”

“Well he probably is, Elsa and we just don’t know it. How do you get these dates anyway? I wish I had a date.”

“I don’t know. Damned if I know. I was filthy and sweaty and pumping gas in my truck at the end of the day. I’m not even sure I want to go but I’m going anyway. So thanks for letting me stay at your place. I wouldn’t want to have to drive back and I’m not going to stay at his house and possibly have to fight him off.”

“I’ll just put a key under the mat,” she said.

“Okay thanks.”

So the weekend came. I drove to my friend’s house early so we could visit awhile. Good thing too because I barely saw her after that. She got this prick boyfriend who didn’t like me. He made her choose between him and I, and she chose him.

“I’m sorry Elsa, but he thinks you’re a bad influence.”

“What?”

That’s what she told me, and I couldn’t believe it.

He ruined her life of course, but never mind that. On with the story.

I showed up to this guy’s house and got my first clue. He’s wearing a hat. Yup. A cowboy hat. And he was distressed that I was not.

“Where’s your hat?” he asked.

“Huh? What hat? I don’t have a hat.”

“You don’t have a hat? What do you mean? You can’t go see George Strait without a hat.”

“What do you mean? They won’t let me in? I don’t understand,” I said.

“Well, sure. They’ll let you in, I guess.  But you’ll be the only person there without a hat. You’ve got to have a hat.”

“What? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I was wondering what kind of hip jazz crowd this is, where you must have a hat to enter. What land am I in, again?

“Look. Never mind. You look really beautiful,” he said.

“That’s right, you fucker.” I didn’t say that, I thought it.

“All you’re missing is a hat, and I have lots of hats. You can wear one of mine,” he said, “I can’t believe you don’t have a hat of your own, though. We’re going to have go get you one. How are you going to ride in my truck without a hat?”

“Well I don’t know you, fucker. What makes you think I am going to ever ride in your truck again. I have my own truck, you prick.” That’s me, thinking again.

So he puts a big ol’ black hat on my head. Then a brown one, and then a white one, and then a straw one.

I was ready to kill him, but I have that Libra, so I smile instead and said, “You know what? I think I’d prefer not to wear a hat. If I wanted to wear a hat, I’d be wearing one. I’ll go the way I am, and if you don’t want to go with me, that’s fine. I’d understand,” I said.

I had my fingers crossed on that last. I wanted out but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings of course. Plus I had a commitment and you know how I feel about that.

Anyway, eventually we got in his truck (HUGE and BLUE with a ROLL BAR) and went (DRIVING OVER CURBS) to the show.

Of course, the parking area was crammed with TRUCKS and every person in every truck is wearing a HAT, so I thought, “Fuck me, at least I’ll have a story to tell my friend.” People count on me for stories, you know.

So they did let me in the concert, naked head and all,and man did I get an eyeful. An eye full of Wrangler jeans that is.

“It seems that Wranglers are the pants of choice around here,” I quipped, trying to make conversation.

He didn’t get it. I remarked that cowboys and girls are docile compared to the crowd at a rock and roll concert which I preferred.  The guy looked confused at that but it did not stop him from falling in love with me, apparently.

See, a romantic song came on and he put his arm around me and laid his head on my shoulder as if we had some longstanding intimate relationship and I kind of freaked about that. I wanted to get away, so I told him I was going to travel.

“Travel?”

“Yeah.”

He had told me how good-looking this artist was, and we were kind of in nosebleed seats. One of the things I marveled at was how the fans kept the aisles clear. If you go to the kind of shows I do, then you know this is very odd. I was kind of enthralled with the idea that I could walk up the aisle, all the way to the stage with my hands stretched out wide and not touch another human being. They were totally clear like that.

“Uh, yeah. I’m going to go see this guy. I want to see if he looks as good as you say. I’m curious. Stay here, okay?”

He said he’d wait for me and said something along the lines of how he knew I’d be smitten.  He seemed to think this would get him laid or something, so I thought he was a fool.  By now, he was lucky that I hadn’t killed him for being stupid, but it was all work and duty now. I said I would be his date, so I was being his date but at the moment his date was going to take a walk.

So I did. I walked to the stage and met not one person in the aisle, coming or going. Up front I stared at the guy on stage who was not that interesting after all and then I turned and walked back and finished the date. At least I knew now, right? I wanted to see what the big deal was.

After the show we went back to his house where my car was parked. He asked me if I wanted to stay (no) or see him again (no) so it was kind of awkward.

I got in my car and drove to my friend’s house, and that is the day I saw George Strait in concert.

I never made another date at a gas pump.  It was a one-time thing.