Tackle and bait stores, gas stations, coffee shops, bars, a Laundromat. A neon sign proclaimed,
“Bishop’s High Stakes Market”.
“How’s our gas?”
The gas gauge was close to empty.
I pulled into a gas station across the street from, “Bishop’s High Stakes Market”. The attendant
was a pimply faced kid who kept looking across the street. I turned my head to see a car load of
teenage girls in the parking lot of the market.
I released the hood catch and climbed out of the car to check the oil. I didn’t wait for the kid to get around to doing it.
“Some service,” Dave said as I raised the hood. “We have to check our own oil?”
The attendant was watching the gas, acted like he didn’t hear. I almost told Dave to get up off his ass,
there was nothing wrong with him, but thought better and kept my mouth shut.
“Hey, Dave,” I said from under the hood. “Have you checked your transmission fluid lately?”
“Never,” he said flatly.
I found the dip stick for the transmission, back by the fire wall and pulled it out. I wiped it off, put it back in its tube,
held it up to the light.
“Hey, check this out. It's dry.”
“This I gotta' see.” Dave finally climbed out of the car. He inserted the dip stick, withdrew it, held it up.
“Hey,” he told the attendant, “we need a can of ATF.”
The kid adjusted his cap, finished putting gas in our car and, while Dave fished in his pockets, ambled over to
the display rack. He looked the rows of cans over and, finally, with a sigh, reached slowly for one.
Dave stalked over, jammed a couple bills in the kid’s left hand, lifted the spout and the can from his right.
He put the can on the ground, jammed in the spout, picked it up, carried it to the engine compartment, gurgled
its contents into the filler, checked the dip stick - still dry.
“Damn it!” He started rummaging through his pockets. “We need another can.” He finally produced a twenty from his wallet.
“This is what I've got.”
Dave gave the attendant the bill, reached for another quart. The kid mumbled, “Change,” and proceeded to slouch across the apron.
Dave put the can on the ground. I rested my arms on the car roof, looking across the apron at the office, watching the attendant's
back disappear through the door.
“If he’d checked the oil,” Dave bent down, jammed in the spout, lifted the can, carried it to the filler and started gurgling its
contents in, “We wouldn’t be doing this.”
