Waiting For G
In the rain-ish dew we sit waiting for a gas truck from Texas. People are stomping their feet and cursing. So many stations went out of business and bankrupt cause of the rising fuel costs and many couldn’t take the heat of a restless crowd. But Earl, my husband, the station owner has patience from years of Tai Chi. He doesn’t move so fast and neither do I as I hold his hand. It’s sweating like mine.
There’s nothing we can do but wait. The truck will be here we have been told and told before, though that doesn’t pacify the crowd. I hear them now rattling their keys, car doors and the bathroom sign. They take it and stomp on it. Some pull at opposite ends, playing a tug of war. Earl starts to get up from his chair. I say to him, “let them play,” and hold his hand against my chest, tapping on the cell phone with the emergency button. People chant, “We want gas, we want gas.” His legs shake next to mine as bits of the cardboard sign flutters in the air. Children hit at pieces of it with twigs, playing baseball and I see of flash of something, but hope it’s just my old eyes. Earl squeezes my hand extra tight as the crowds’ chanting gets louder.
A strip of plywood is cracked in half from the bed of a construction truck. Portions of it are passed around. I whisper to Earl,“I dialed for help,” but then I hear a shot. It takes Earl down, bloodying his leg. I apply pressure to the wound as the truck from Texas arrives.
The crowd charges after it. I look at the truck and see a long haired driver with a tattooed arm, screaming at the crowd to back away. I blink. “This is the 1970s?” I blink again, “This is now?” Earl squeezes my hand, “Yes, it is and we have 9-1-1,’” and I hear the sirens approaching. They arrive, first the paramedics, then the police and disperse the crowd and mutter among themselves, “The driver was armed…fired the warning shot…” I stare at my blood splattered trousers and am scared for the fuel starved world.
===
Note: This is a fictional scenario about what could happen unless we come up with an efficient and alternative fuel source and soon.
There’s nothing we can do but wait. The truck will be here we have been told and told before, though that doesn’t pacify the crowd. I hear them now rattling their keys, car doors and the bathroom sign. They take it and stomp on it. Some pull at opposite ends, playing a tug of war. Earl starts to get up from his chair. I say to him, “let them play,” and hold his hand against my chest, tapping on the cell phone with the emergency button. People chant, “We want gas, we want gas.” His legs shake next to mine as bits of the cardboard sign flutters in the air. Children hit at pieces of it with twigs, playing baseball and I see of flash of something, but hope it’s just my old eyes. Earl squeezes my hand extra tight as the crowds’ chanting gets louder.
A strip of plywood is cracked in half from the bed of a construction truck. Portions of it are passed around. I whisper to Earl,“I dialed for help,” but then I hear a shot. It takes Earl down, bloodying his leg. I apply pressure to the wound as the truck from Texas arrives.
The crowd charges after it. I look at the truck and see a long haired driver with a tattooed arm, screaming at the crowd to back away. I blink. “This is the 1970s?” I blink again, “This is now?” Earl squeezes my hand, “Yes, it is and we have 9-1-1,’” and I hear the sirens approaching. They arrive, first the paramedics, then the police and disperse the crowd and mutter among themselves, “The driver was armed…fired the warning shot…” I stare at my blood splattered trousers and am scared for the fuel starved world.
===
Note: This is a fictional scenario about what could happen unless we come up with an efficient and alternative fuel source and soon.
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