Pump #3
You left your phone in the car when you got out to pump gas. The sleep-shorts you wore offered little protection against the cool autumn night. Gooseflesh broke out on your bare skin, and you wanted nothing more than to get back home quickly to snuggle up under your sheets. There was a piece of receipt paper duct-taped to the card reader, “pay inside.” A sigh escaped your lips before you pushed your credit card back into its designated slot in your trifold wallet.
In the rush to get home after work, you had forgotten to get gas, only remembering once you’d showered and gotten ready for bed. The likelihood that you might stall out on the highway the next morning made it too hard to get comfortable enough to read your book before bed, the thought turning into a sticker burr that clung in the folds of your brain. Using the “car trouble” excuse could only get you so far after having been late every day this week, and you didn’t think you could handle another passive-aggressive email from your boss. So, you got up, hoping to dash to the gas station down the street and be back in bed with your book in time to read a few pages before bed.
The large, fuzzy house slippers scraped against the pavement as you made your way across the parking lot. A bell went off when you opened the door and stepped inside. You looked back for a moment, glancing through the glass door at the number posted above the pump in big white numerals. “#3.” The attendant, a haggard-looking woman, walked in from the truckers’ entrance after tossing her half-finished cigarette. She gave you a dead-eyed look from behind the counter.
“Uh, hi. Could I get thirty on pump three?” you asked, hoping the cashier didn’t notice your comfortable attire.
The attendant punched her finger down onto the touch screen POS system, “Thirty on pump three. Did you have a rewards number with us?”
“Oh, no, I don’t,” you replied with a smile.
“You can scan the QR code at the bottom of the card reader to download the app and get up to six cents off a gallon with each future purchase,” she said in a scripted manner.
That’s when you noticed you left your phone in the car. The thought that your car was not locked and someone could steal it crossed your mind. Upon a quick glance through the glass door, you saw that no other cars had pulled up, and the parking lot was empty.
“I forgot my phone in the car,” you admitted, playfully knocking the side of your head with your closed fist. “Seem to be forgetting all kinds of things today!”
The attendant looked at you, then punched another button on her screen. “Tap when you’re ready.”
You pressed your card down against the machine several times before it beeped to let you know you’d successfully made your purchase.
“Receipt?” she asked, deadpan.
“No, thank you,” you answered.
“Have a nice night,” she replied, as she walked back toward the truck entrance before you could return the nicety.
You scurried out of the gas station and back to your car, pressing the 87 button and pulling the nozzle free from its carriage. The screen flashed your thirty-dollar limit. You turned around, pulled the gas cap off, and stuck the nozzle inside. The street you pulled in from was empty, and the night was so black, you could barely see past the halo of light that encompassed this small island of visibility under the pump canopy. The attendant was probably still smoking behind the building, leaving the gas station’s interior empty of people.
A memory of your dad telling you to never stop for gas by yourself at night popped into your head. “You’ll think you’re alone, but you won’t be. There’s always someone watching.” The thought sent tingles down your back as you watched the pump screen tick up one cent at a time, wishing it would go faster. It was ridiculous anyway, he was always paranoid. Your phone was right there. You could call for help if you needed to. Besides, you really were alone there. It was so still and quiet, you’d notice if something—someone—disturbed the air around you.
The sound of pouring liquid slowed as the cents crawled up to thirty full dollars. The nozzle finally clicked shut after a few painful seconds. You pulled the nozzle out of your car, shook it on the way out, and stuck it back in its rightful place. Relief washed over you as you stepped back into your car and picked up your phone to check the time.
You paused at the sight of your camera open and started to assume you’d clicked the icon by accident before you saw the small image of something unfamiliar in the corner. The breath you took caught in your throat when you clicked on it. There you were, in tiny shorts and a baggy shirt, lost in thought while you waited for your gas to finish pumping. You swiped to the left to find another photo, then another, stopping at ten photos of you in various states of being unaware.
Maybe it was because you weren’t paying attention, or because you just weren’t primed to expect it, but the sound of breathing coming from the backseat still shocked you more than it probably should’ve. You didn’t want to turn around, hoping against hope that whoever it was might just open the door and leave, but you knew that wasn’t going to happen.
About the Author
Sarah Elena Smart Vargas holds a BA in Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University. She teaches middle school ESL in a small town outside San Antonio, Texas. Her poem “Artificial” was published in Tipton Poetry Journal. She lives with her fiancé and a dog named Boris.