Chapter Four
The Phillips 66 in Lakin was almost new. Unlike older filling stations, which did not shelter the pumps, this station’s roof continued forward from the building, angling up in a slender triangular shape. It just covered the pumps and a bit of ground beyond. Together with the building’s white exterior and ample glass, the projection suggested speed and freedom. It might have been a church spire turned on its side, a reminder of the transcendence proper to a space age.
The station was on the north side of the highway. In winter, the southern sun warmed the bays and melted ice on the lanes next to the pumps. In summer, the southern wind flowed through open doors, providing some relief to the men.
Rodger saw the sign as he drove through town. Although he liked to patronize “mom and pop” establishments, he tried to purchase gas from major chains. In his mind, the gas would be fresher since the chains sold more of it. The Chevelle was getting low, so he pulled in.
The station had only two pumps, each with a single hose. An eastbound van was parked on the outer lane, and a young man in an army jacket was standing nearby. A station attendant was pumping gas into the van, and another was checking the oil. Rodger parked on the inner lane.
Mike was fascinated with gas stations, as with most other things. The pumps at this station were of a newer sort, featuring half-domes of glass on the sides opposite the hoses. As gas travelled through a pump, it spun a vaned wheel suspended in the dome.
Mike got out of the Chevelle and, as usual, watched the gas being pumped. He also considered the method used to wash windshields. Although this station had newer pumps, an old wringer washer stood between them, filled with dirty water. Natural sponges floated in the solution, and equally dirty chamois were slung over the rollers. Mike knew this method was common, especially in rural areas, but he never understood the logic behind it or fully approved the results.
The attendants finished with the van and came around to the Chevelle. Rodger told them to fill it, but that he would check the oil. One attendant pulled a sponge from the wash basin and pressed it back and forth on the windshield, discharging nearly black water over the molding and down the car’s side. Rodger was not pleased, but he saw no reason to say anything. He also saw no reason to ask where the restrooms were; he could find them.
Mike was watching the wheel spin in a pump when the man in the army jacket remarked, “that’s kind of cool.” Mike was surprised by the man’s ingratiating tone and, as he turned to face him, at how close the man was standing. The boy was not offended, however. He was used to speaking with adults, and his only instructions were never to enter a stranger’s car. He was still next to the Chevelle, and his father had just rounded the station’s corner.
“Where are you two going?” the man said. Mike was surprised again— strangers usually asked his age, his grade, or how he liked his dad’s car. The man also placed a strange emphasis on “you two.” Mike did not know what to think, yet he was not afraid. “California,” he answered.
“Oh,” the man responded, “that’s where I’m from.” Mike became excited. Not only was his mother in California, but he had been watching for a California license tag. Mike had never seen one and was wondering how far they would drive before the first sighting.
“Do you have a California tag?” Mike asked. The man smiled. “I have two, one on front and one on back.” Mike interjected, “you have a tag on front?” and, not waiting for an answer, walked to the front of the van. There it was, a blue tag with “California” in gold letters and larger gold figures below. The man, who had followed Mike, added that he had more California tags in the van.
For the first time, Mike noticed a man seated behind the van’s steering wheel. He appeared shorter and older. Looking back at the man who had followed him, Mike started noticing small details. His jacket was missing its name patch. There were black circles under his eyes. He smelled like the burnt nutmeg Mike’s aunt had once dropped on a stove.
Mike was less than 10 feet from where he started, but he began to feel far from the Chevelle and his father. The man spoke about the tags in the van. “Let’s go in and see them,” he suggested.
Mike knew he shouldn’t get in the van, but the suggestion gave him an idea. The man was blocking the way to the Chevelle, but walking around the van would provide a clear path to the car. “Okay,” Mike said, as he started moving.
When he rounded the front of the van, Mike heard the motor start and saw the side doors were open. He tried to walk past the doors, but the man stepped around. Standing again before the boy, the man said very evenly: “I want to show you the tags.”
Rodger returned from the restroom and, not seeing his son, continued toward the open bays. Mike loved to watch the hydraulic lifts in action and would examine in detail all of the belts and hoses hung on the wall near the ceiling. But only the attendants, now repairing a tire, were inside.
Rodger walked a few feet from the bay openings and looked back towards the Chevelle. The boy was still not visible. Rodger then saw, between the van’s front wheels, Mike’s feet and those of an adult male on the van’s far side.
Rodger started walking towards the van. He realized there was another man behind the wheel and the motor was running. Rodger moved faster, keeping his body in direct line with the van, and upon reaching the hood, stepped quickly around.
With one glance Rodger knew the situation. Blood rushed into his chest and upper back. Taking firm steps towards the man, he pulled Mike to the side and kept going. He was enraged at what had happened to his wife. He was enraged at what almost happened to his son. He was a man of many sacrifices, and here were predators who take what they want. This was going to stop. Rodger felt deeply sick as he squashed the objection of his conscience.
The man was younger than Rodger and had seen combat in Vietnam. He was visibly weakened by habits picked up there, but he carried a knife and was practiced in its use. The man turned slightly to shield his reach into the jacket’s pocket.
Suddenly between himself and the man Rodger sensed a power. Unable to describe it to anyone afterwards, Rodger felt something at once light and forceful, nimble and utterly firm. He knew he could, by evil will, step through the power, but when he tried, he was pushed back. To his surprise, Rodger felt love, not condemnation, and he accepted in an instant that his will was not entirely evil.
The man had not survived Vietnam by failing to read situations. Seeing Rodger’s hesitation, he leapt into the van, shouted at the driver, and slammed the doors shut. The van accelerated recklessly from the station.
Rodger considered giving chase, but he was unarmed, they were two, and he had Mike along. He examined the boy, who appeared unhurt. “What did they tell you?” Rodger asked. “He said he had California license tags in the van. He had California tags on the van, too.”
Rodger led Mike into the station. The attendants had not witnessed anything, but they gave Rodger a phone book so he could call the sheriff. After providing a description, dispatch told Rodger that deputies would look into it. Rodger had to admit the men did not touch Mike or otherwise commit a clearly illegal act.
The boy and his father got back into the Chevelle. Rodger had intended to make La Junta, and he decided the day would be saved if they reached it. He knew where the Catholic church was, and they could be there by mid-afternoon.