Les's Station Part Three

Les’s Station Part Three

Les had two daughters; both were teachers not long out of college. The slightly older one got the idea that she was too good to be seen in a service station and I do not remember seeing her more than once or twice. The younger one was right out of college and on her first teaching job. She was as pretty as anyone I had seen up to that time (this was prior to meeting Joyce). She came by the station a lot and I always enjoyed seeing her. She was friendly, flirty and sweet.

There were few times Les left before closing, but when he did, he would have another character come in and finish the shift with me. His name was Pete and the first order of business after Les left was to put Pete’s Ford up on the rack and do an oil change, lube and filter change. Pete would drain the oil, fill the engine with kerosene and run it for a minute or two to clean out the internal parts before draining it again and then refill it with fresh oil. I was never sure about the wisdom of that, but it seemed to work.

One afternoon Les had to leave and Pete was not available, so he called the younger daughter to come in and be there with me until the end of shift. I was thrilled, enthralled. She was a raven-haired beauty and though she had no real interest in me she would flirt and naturally pump up my ego. I was always happy to see her when she stopped in to fill her gas tank. How she would have saved my skinny butt, had there been any trouble at the station that evening, is still a mystery to me.

The station was in Wellston Missouri, another suburb of Saint Louis. Wellston was a rough part of town even back then. It was populated by rednecks from all over the countryside and poor black people. Businesses there had bars on the windows long before that was a common practice. There was one old black woman who came in during the winter months and she would buy kerosene, one gallon at a time to heat her home. She walked every time, paid her twenty cents and carried that heavy one-gallon glass jar home with her. I never could imagine how she had the strength do that. There was an old black man who would come in once a week or so and buy fifty cents worth of gas to fuel his giant Buick Roadmaster. That car always had a shine I could see my face in. He kept it in his garage with a tarp covering it. He only went out to take the old ladies of the neighborhood to the doctor or on an occasional date. I often gave him seventy-five cents worth of fuel and put the extra quarter in the till for him. It just seemed sweet to me that he took the old ladies to the doctor or made their evening a little brighter on a date.

One afternoon I had a redneck come in; he wanted two dollars worth of gas. I pumped the gas and then he told me he had no money. He said he was on the way to a job and could pay me in two days. I declined the offer and he offered me anything he had in the car to hold as security. I had him open the trunk and I picked up his toolbox and said I would hold it until he came back. There was not much in it, but that was all he had. I was alone at the station; Les was gone to the local auto parts store to pick up something. When Les returned I told him what happened and he was not happy, more like furious. I do not know what he would have done and he had never told me what I should have done. He took the tool box and told me he would keep it by his desk and if the redneck did not return, I was going to buy that tool box! A few days later I came in to work and Les held up the tool box and said, “Well here’s your toolbox. I’ll take the money out of your pay.” He never did and I do not know where the box went.

One afternoon I was leaving the station for some reason; I do not remember why, but I pulled out from the curb and made a u-turn. A Wellston policeman stopped me and gave me a ticket. I told Les about it and he said not to worry, because the policeman couldn’t ticket me for that as there was no sign there forbidding it. Les held the contract to do the work on the Wellston police cars and he said he knew people. A month or so later, I had forgotten about the ticket, when a detective came in the station. He had his car fueled and when I came into the office he looked at my shirt, saw “Bill” and asked my last name. I told him my name and he said to wait at the station there was a bench warrant issued for failure to appear in court and he would send a patrol officer over to pick me up. I was stunned as he signed for the fuel and walked out. I looked at Les and he said, “Ah don’t worry about it.” I continued working and no one ever showed up to arrest me. I guess Les did know people.

One summer afternoon one of the Wellston city road crewmembers came in driving an old Ford 9N tractor. He said to fill it up. I had never seen a tractor in my life. I looked around for a gas cap and tank on the back and sides but did not see one. I looked at the front and saw a cap there. I thought it was an odd place for that but thought that had to be it. I opened the cap and started pumping gas into it. It filled up immediately, so I shut off the pump and went inside the station. The driver asked how much gas it took. I said it was a quarter of a gallon. He looked shocked and then asked where I filled the tank. I told him and he freaked out! I had topped off the radiator with gasoline. I know now where the gas tank is on a Ford 9N (under a flap just ahead of the steering wheel and over the top of the engine) but what I was thinking back then still escapes me. I can only speculate on this, but I think I was lucky the radiator was nearly full and had not been overheating. Had conditions been right, I suppose things could have gone wrong in a hurry.

I continued working for Les until I joined the navy and left for boot camp. I only saw him once after joining the navy, but even now after 50 years I still remember him and how he was a major factor in my formative years. I pray that God has blessed Les and his memory. I hope when I get to the point where memories begin to fade, you know like yesterday, I only hope I can remember Les.

The End