William's Chevron

Back when I was 19 years old, angry and high, living with a drug addict and in this sick and desperate sort of relationship with a woman that I frankly had no business even knowing, I worked at a gas station.

I would get on my bike at 5:30 in the morning and pedal my ass to the Chevron station on El Toro road, right off the 5 freeway in OC.

For some reason I remember this as one of the best jobs I’ve ever had. I worked with a vaguely racist and volatile family who owned the place; they were nice to me, but I am white. I eventually convinced everyone who worked there to call me Lord Bill, King of the Cashiers. I stole smokes and had mad drug connections with the insane riff raff that also worked there. Oh, and they were flexible with my schedule as I was also going to school at the time.

Occasionally I would work the graveyard shift 10pm to 6am. This would often happen when I was working the night shift and the graveyard guy never showed. I’m about to make a huge generalization here, but: graveyard guys tend to not be the most reliable folks in the world.

I loved the graveyard shift, even doing it straight off the night shift. I could play guitar, go smoke in the beer cooler, all the beef jerky I could take. And did I mention the customers?

I was told I must lock the doors at midnight. One night about 2, some guy comes up to the speaker box asking to use the bathroom. I told him I was sorry, but the inside was closed for the evening. He reiterated to me that he really had to pee. I said:

“I’m going to quote the owner of this establishment for you: Even if Jesus Christ himself were lying bleeding in front of this door, you will not open it.”

*I would probably have to open the door for the Big J dude, that’s just good business. Sorry Trudy.

The man with the full bladder then asked if he could go behind the building to throw a whiz. I said yeah man, follow your bliss.

But the guy I remember most out of all the late night denizens, out of all the ramblers and nutty requesters, is a guy I’ll call Larry.

I don’t know why I’m so fascinated with Larry, but he drove up at the gas station in his red sports car round about 3:30 in the morning in his bathrobe. He came up to the window and promptly and politely asked for $2 in gas on pump five.

Why the sudden need to put $2 of unleaded into his convertible Mustang struck Larry at 3:30 in the morning I will never know. A need so sudden that he couldn’t even throw on shorts and T-shirt? I’m a little obsessed by this. I might write about a possible reason someday.

Maybe even tomorrow…