“Ah what can I do ye fer, boys?” He sounds exactly as someone would imagine from a Rip Van Winkle pump attendant.

“Filler up wi’this.” The driver hands the man a folded dollar. He doesn’t look at it as he puts it in the front pocket of his overalls and circles the car, studying it as if it were on an operating table.

“Looks like ye boys’ve been through the wa-ar.” He confirms this with a finger-scrape of the hood. It yields a yellowed gray streak, and the attendant scrunches up his face like someone has just shat in his hand.

“Don be afraid ta giver a good scrubbin, ol man.” The driver doesn’t say that facetiously. He saw the bucket of no-doubt icy, soapy water beside where the man sat, and expects a full scrub down for his money. The attendant just folds his arms at his sides and shakes his head. Apparently, he would prefer to treat already buffed and polished vehicles. In that case, he should quit the gas station and go work as a chauffeur for Jeanie Meriwether’s crowd; though he’d have to lose the greasy overalls and trim back the beard a bit.

“Let’s go in fer some smokes.” The hitchhiker heads for the brightly lilt store in the motel’s foyer. It shines with slick tiled floors and the reflection off a chrome plated ice box. It reminds him of how quickly it become dark, especially up in the mountains; and cold. He runs to the glowing coil heater behind the door.

“Might as well. It’s getting a bit nippy out here anyway.”

Inside, they are not alone. A pairing and a half of grizzly bikers take up almost the entire store. The hitchhiker and driver scrunch against the rack of rolling papers and tobacco. The bikers are laughing with a deafening gut-belch. Something has stirred their derision, and they toss packets of potato chips and clink bottles from the cooler with glee.

“Hahahahaha.” The biggest of the three turns around and bellies up to the duo huddled at the counter. “What is this?” It’s a bear of a growl, gurgled with beer and phlegm.