The Last Pump

Tom Briggs woke up at six in the morning and made coffee. The coffee machine was old and it made a sound like a man clearing his throat before he spoke. Tom did not mind the sound. He had heard worse sounds. He had heard sounds that stayed in his head for years.

He drank the coffee standing at the kitchen window. The window looked out over Route 42, a two-lane road that used to have traffic and now had almost none. A truck went by. It was going the wrong way. Tom watched it disappear and thought about whether he needed to buy more gas. The tanks were half full. He would go down to the station later and check.

Tom lived in a town called Millerton, Ohio. Millerton had a population of 1,247 according to the last census, which had been three years ago and nobody had updated since. The town had a gas station, a general store, a church that was mostly empty, and a diner that served the same menu every day. Tom owned the gas station. He had owned it for seven years. He had bought it from a man named Harold who had retired to Florida and then died in Florida and whose wife had sold the station to Tom for a price Tom could afford because the station was barely making money and nobody else wanted it.

Mary Ellen arrived at seven. She was a small woman with grey hair and hands that were rough from work and a face that had stopped trying to look young about ten years before. She worked at the station from seven until three, and Tom came at three and worked until eleven. They had this arrangement for seven years. They did not talk much. They did not need to.

"Morning," Mary Ellen said.

"Morning," Tom said.

"The pump on the left is acting up again. It counts wrong."

"I know," Tom said. "I will fix it."

"You fix it every week. It is still wrong."

"I know," Tom said.

Mary Ellen went inside the store and unlocked the door and turned on the lights and stocked the cigarettes and arranged the magazines. Tom went outside and looked at the pump. The left pump had been acting up for three months. He had replaced the mechanism twice. It was still wrong. He decided he would replace it again. Or he would not. The difference was maybe five dollars a month. Five dollars was not nothing. Five dollars was also nothing.

Mayor Earl Duggan came at ten. Earl's car was black and shiny and it looked out of place parked in front of a gas station that had peeling paint and a roof that leaked when it rained. Earl got out of the car and he was wearing a suit and a tie and a smile that he had practiced in the mirror and was not very good at hiding what was behind it.

"Tom," Earl said. "How are you, my friend?"

"I am fine," Tom said.

"Fine is good. Fine is acceptable." Earl looked at the pumps. "These need work."

"They need work," Tom said.

Earl smiled. It was not a kind smile. "You know, Tom, people talk. They say this station is falling apart. They say you are letting it go. They say you are not the man you used to be."

Tom looked at Earl. He looked at Earl's suit and his tie and his practiced smile and his small sharp eyes. "Let it go," Tom said.

"Yeah," Earl said. "Let it go. That is what I am saying. Let it go. It is easier that way."

Earl got back in his car and drove away. Tom watched him go. He thought about what Earl had said. Let it go. Easier that way. Tom had been a soldier. He had been in Vietnam. He had seen things that he still did not talk about. His brother had been with him. His brother had not come home. Earl had known his brother. Earl had been there. Earl had not done anything.

Tom went back to looking at the pump. He replaced the mechanism for the third time. It was still wrong. He decided he would not fix it again. Five dollars a month. Five dollars was not nothing. Five dollars was also nothing.

Mary Ellen came out of the store at noon and sat on the step in front of the door and ate a sandwich and watched the road. A car went by. Then another. Then nothing for twenty minutes. Then a truck. Then nothing again.

"Earl was here," Mary Ellen said.

"I know," Tom said.

"He was not pleasant."

"No," Tom said. "He was not."

Mary Ellen ate her sandwich. Tom looked at the pump. The left pump was still wrong. It always would be wrong. Some things were wrong and they stayed wrong and you just kept pumping gas and counting the money and going home to an apartment that was quiet and making coffee at six in the morning and watching the road.

Earl did not come back the next week. Or the week after. Or the week after that. Tom noticed after two weeks that Earl had not come to the station. He noticed after three weeks that he had not seen Earl's black car anywhere in town. He noticed after four weeks that the diner had stopped talking about Earl. People stopped talking about things that made them uncomfortable. It was a skill Millerton had perfected over decades.

Nobody asked where Earl had gone. Nobody called the sheriff. The sheriff was friends with Earl and the sheriff's brother-in-law worked for Earl and the sheriff did not like questions. So nobody asked.

Tom kept pumping gas. Mary Ellen kept stocking cigarettes. The left pump was still wrong. It counted five dollars less than it should every month. Five dollars was not nothing. Five dollars was also nothing.

One morning at three in the morning, Tom woke up and could not sleep. He got out of bed and walked to the window and looked out over Route 42. The road was dark and empty. A single truck light appeared in the distance and moved closer and passed by and disappeared. Tom stood at the window and listened to the silence. The silence was not peaceful. It was just silence. It was the absence of sound, not the presence of peace.

He thought about his brother. He thought about Vietnam. He thought about Earl. He thought about the pump that was wrong and would stay wrong and about five dollars a month that was not nothing and also nothing. He thought about all the things he had seen and all the things he had not seen and all the things he had done and all the things he had not done and he thought about how none of it mattered and all of it mattered and the difference between the two was something he had never figured out and might never figure out.

He went back to bed. He could not sleep. He lay there until six and then he got up and made coffee and the machine made the sound like a man clearing his throat and he drank it at the window and watched the road and waited for Mary Ellen to arrive.

She arrived at seven. She was small and grey-handed and she unlocked the door and turned on the lights and stocked the cigarettes.

"Morning," she said.

"Morning," Tom said.

"The pump on the left is still wrong."

"I know," Tom said.

Tom went outside and looked at the pump. The left pump was wrong. It had always been wrong. It would always be wrong. He turned on the station. He opened the door. He began the day.

The teacup was in Tom's apartment, in a trash bag, tied up. He did not look at it. He did not think about it. He thought about gas prices and pump mechanisms and whether Mary Ellen would show up the next day and whether the road would have traffic or not. He thought about ordinary things. Ordinary things were easier. Ordinary things did not ask questions. Ordinary things just were.

Life went on. The pump kept running. The numbers on the meter went up and down. Tom counted the money. He went home. He made coffee. He watched the road. He waited for morning.

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