A BMW sports car with California license plates rolls off the 101. A middle-aged man in slacks and a collared sports shirt steps out and is instantly greeted by the Southern Oregon Coast's gusty wind. He slips on flashy shades and begins reaching for the gas pump.
"Sorry," I interject, "you'll have to let me do that."
He raises an eyebrow.
"Welcome to Oregon," I say with a smile as I lift the pump. Then I give a backward jerk of the thumb towards the sign tacked up on the hut: NO SELF SERVE — IT'S OREGON LAW.
"Well I'll be damned," the tourist mutters, then gives me a leery smile, "Well then, by all means young lady, fill'er up."
I slot the nozzle into the BMW and then make my way over to Tommy's rusted Ford truck.
"Five bucks," he says, handing over the worn bill. Won't buy him much more than a gallon.
Cranberry farmers are not having a good year.
He glances at the tourist, doing the "Mr. Important" act with a Blackberry. "Golfer?"
I shrug.
"Well, you take care of yourself," Tommy says, restarting the engine, "and tell your dad I said 'hi.'"
I wave good-bye, then quickly hook up Dr. Meeks's tank. He always likes the tank full. With that pump running I then move on to Ol' Bill, who counts out quarters, nickels and dimes till he has exactly four thirty-five.
There's no money in fishing anymore.
Then I hustle back to the BMW. The tourist hands me a crisp hundred-dollar bill. "You know how to make change off that, right?"
I reach into my hip belt and place the hundred into the wallet, then count out the change.
"Lot of cash to be carrying," he quips.
As if on cue, Ellie pokes her enormous, yet regal, head out of the hut. She looks exactly like a lioness emerging from her cave. She's a Kangal, a Turkish sheep dog who never took to living with the sheep. A defect my father forgave only after I began working at the station.
The tourist takes in the sight of Ellie and moves a step back, his leer fading just a bit. I try to repress a smirk.
After he drives away, I fill up an RV passing through. They ask directions to the nearest McDonald's: 25 miles due north. Yes, really.
Then a couple of local realtors come by, chomping on their gum while yapping into their fancy cell phones. They never say a word to the likes of me.
The golf course has made it a very good year for property.
Mike pulls up in his old rusty pickup, shuddering to a halt. These days, he's the school janitor.
There's no money in logging anymore.
"June's sure been out at your place a lot," he comments.
June, his wife, is a nurse for the local hospice.
"Yes," I reply, watching as Ellie nuzzles his thigh. As far as she is concerned, any familiar face is a chance to have her ears scratched, and only a familiar face would dare.
"You gonna sell that ranch when the old man's gone?"
I nod.
There's no money in sheep anymore.
"Well, least that'll see you through, then."
I nod again as he gets back in the pickup and drives off. No point in explaining there will be little left after the bank takes its share.
That evening, when customers are no more than a sporadic trickle, I spend most of my time huddled in the hut. Ellie has stretched her long bulk across the doorway keeping guard while I glare at the form sitting on the rough plywood countertop.
Tell us about where you grew up. How has it influenced the person you are today? How has it contributed to your desire to attend university?
For the nth time, I toss it back down.
The essay has to be at least a thousand words. I can barely come up with more than five. Wouldn't a photograph of this gas station and a photocopy of a pay slip do? All I know is that this town has no place for the likes of me anymore.
Tiah Marie Beautement is the author of the novel Moons Don't Go To Venus, which is available in South Africa. Her work has also appeared in MotherVerse. She is an American currently living in Southern England with her South African husband and their two British children. When not at home, they can be located somewhere in the world hiking.