The Shell station could be seen from miles away, bright against Mount Romni’s blackness. The upper half of the exterior walls were glass, making visible the shelves and fridges stocked with their usual gas station fare. We’d stopped there at the tail end of last winter when we’d driven to the city to play against St. Michael’s––our second or third game––and driven by it a few other times.
Conroy pulled up to the pump. The parking lot was empty. Our van was the only vehicle, which made me wonder how the clerk got to work until I noticed a high-end mountain bike locked up at the bike rack. I couldn’t recall ever seeing the station completely empty, like it was. Carol, Tabby, and Colby climbed out as soon as Conroy shut the engine off. They all made a beeline for the entrance.
“You guys aren’t going in?” said Conroy, looking back at us. “Snacks are on Carol.”
“The majority of what they sell is high-glycemic carbs anyway––I got something here,” said Anna. She dug in her purse for one of those fruit-and-nut bars she packed around, the ones she could only buy at the health food store. Whatever she ate or drank needed to pass a rigorous food analysis in which she scrutinized food labels. Simon hadn’t removed his headphones, and didn’t seem interested whatsoever in moving. I stuffed All the Pretty Horses into the seat’s back pouch and exchanged it for my plastic camouflage change purse.
“My legs are stiff as boards,” I said, and maneuvered around the middle-bench seat. I climbed out of the side sliding door that Colby hadn’t shut all the way.
Lifting my arms above my head, I leaned backward, then bent over and touched my toes a few times. I tilted my head back against a cool breeze sweeping down from Mount Romni, carrying a wild, raw earthy scent. For a moment, I was reminded of standing on the deck of the Coho ferry a few months before, when Conroy and Carol had taken us all over to visit Victoria on Vancouver Island. It’d been my first trip to Canada.
Stars shone dazzlingly, the honey-colored moon almost full. As the gas pump hummed, I cut across the parking lot toward the lit vending machine from which I’d bought a Gatorade last time we stopped for gas. Anna watched me through the van window. The others glided around the aisles in the Shell, their heads seemingly hovering above the shelves.
I dug out a dollar twenty-five, dropped it into the slot, and pressed the button for Orange Gatorade. A bottle clunked down the chute. When I stooped to pick it up, someone cleared their throat. I glanced around, thinking one of the others had come up behind me. No one was there, only Conroy back at the van still pumping gas, Simon and Anna’s silhouettes visible through the tinted windows. Then I heard it again, only louder this time.
I peeked around the far side of the vending machine. An old Indian man was sitting in a plastic patio chair, back to the wall. A black cowboy hat, faded and dusty, rested on his head with a large eagle feather tucked in a band around the brim. Tiny black eyes stared at me from his wrinkly, dusky face.
“Beer,” he said, and tapped the machine with a crooked finger.
I waited a moment for him to say more, but he didn’t. That was it. One word––beer.
“There’s no beer in here, mister,” I said, scanning the labels, trying not to chuckle.
He pointed again, and said, “Beer,” more loudly.
Again I scanned the labels, and again I came up empty. I thought that he might’ve been suffering from one of those diseases that old people get, like Alzheimer’s or dementia, or maybe he was just clogged up with cobwebs. Then I saw it: the very last label at the bottom was Root Beer. Smiling to myself, feeling kinda stupid for not getting it the first time, I quickly dumped the rest of the change into my palm and dropped a dollar worth of quarters into the slot. “You want a beer, I’ll get you one.” I hit the button. The can clunked down the chute. When I handed it to him, he gave me the widest smile, revealing a perfect set of white teeth that would’ve given Anna’s pearls a run for their money.
An electronic bell dinged from the Shell’s entrance, and I heard the others’ voices as they cut across the parking lot toward the van. Conroy met Carol halfway and they walked to the van together, laughing at something one of them had said. If I didn’t know them, I’d have thought them a couple. Who could say for sure? Maybe they were. Maybe they were and they’d kept it hidden from all of us.
The old Indian cleared his throat again, then opened his hand, palm up. Inside rested a small leather pouch on a thong. I waved him off. “You don’t need to trade, old-timer. Got plenty of change at home. Consider it a gift.”
He thrust his hand forward and nodded, urging me to take it, as if he wasn’t prepared to take no for an answer. I figured he didn’t speak English that well, or maybe not at all, otherwise he would’ve said some more words to get his message across. Then I thought maybe he was partially mute. But what was the big deal? The old Indian wanted to trade, so might as well let him, right? I plucked the pouch from his hand and held it up for a look. It was nothing fancy: a worn piece of brown leather sewn into a teardrop shape, with a strip so you could hang it around your neck. There was something inside. I dumped out a stone into my hand. Tiny, smooth, shiny, and black. Could’ve switched it for one of his eyes and you wouldn’t ever know the difference. He gave a wheezy chuckle and nodded vigorously, like I’d done something he thought mighty right.
Two quick honks blared from the van, signaling it was time for me to scoot. I put the stone back inside and hung the pouch around my neck, under my shirt.
“Thanks, old-timer,” I said. “I’ll keep it forever, pass it on to my kids.”
He nodded again, this time gently. He touched his temple, heart, and then his temple again. He spoke in a language that reminded me of Cherokee, like he was praying or singing a few lyrics from a song. I’d been around Cherokee ranch hands at Vince’s ranch in Montana, Whispering Cedars, the last place my mother and I’d lived together before life got all messed up. I’d heard those Cherokee speak their musical language when no one else was around, as if it was taboo for them to speak it around anyone but their own people. As the last word left his lips, the horn blared again.
“I got to get a move on, mister. You take care of yourself. Thanks for the pouch and stone. I hope that beer wets your whistle.”
He smiled to reveal those teeth again, and gave a little wave of his hand, all the while his eyes sparkling. I left him rocking back and forth––cowboy boots crossed in front of him, bouncing to a rhythm only he could hear––and I trotted back to the van. The others had already started eating their snacks by the time I took a seat beside Anna, who was on her iPhone again. Nothing new there. I was starting to think it was her auxiliary brain.
Carol reminded everyone––of course––to buckle up. As Conroy pulled out of the Shell, I turned to where the old Indian had been sitting, but the lawn chair was empty and he was nowhere in sight. I figured he moved quicker than he looked.