He paid and fled. He stopped outside the door in the heat, clutching the cold can, blind again in the sun, his face burning. He expected hoots of laughter behind him, but there was only gunfire.
He briefly considered walking, but thought the better of it. Too hot. Attract too much attention. Just drive around and see if any of it comes back. Likely nobody here from the old days -- nobody who would remember him anyway. And even if there was, what could they say to each other after forty years? Nothing, that's what. Might as well be in Quebec from what he'd seen so far. Or in another country. Same thing.
Turcott's Garage looked like it had been boarded shut for years. He thought the town had had at least three gas stations; must have had something to do with being on the Quebec border. Broken glass was strewn everywhere, so he parked on a side street and walked back.
The garage was a bombsite. It reeked of mildew and rotting wood, and all visible windows had been smashed down to their frames. He examined the glass-littered ground, wondering where the gas pumps had been. Would they have dug out the tank or just covered it up? Either way, this place would be a toxic suprise for someone someday.
An eastbound transport thundered by, ignoring the speed limit. He covered his face with his hands to shield himself from the flying dirt.
Gasoline!
He sniffed his hands, then the Pepsi can; they were wet with condensation and speckled with grit, but didn't smell of gas. Must be the ground. He peered at the hard brown earth below him and realized it was hard packed sand. Of course. Right where the old pumps used to be; thoroughly soaked with oil and grease and God knows what. As the hurricane from the truck died down, the air fairly shimmered with heat and fumes.
The boy froze in horror as the hose sprayed gasoline over the back fender and trunk of the white Cadillac. A gob of tar on the Quebec licence plate disolved and flowed like licorice onto the bumper. How had this happened? He wasn't even touching the trigger, why didn't the stupid thing stop? He jerked the nozzle away from the car just as Earl grabbed it away from him.
"Stupid ass!" Earl hissed. "My dad'll kill ya if he sees!" Something clicked and the fountain of gasoline stopped.
"But . . . . but it just started squirtin' out! I never did nothin', honest! I just wanted to help."
"Wanted to help! Wanted to help!" quacked Earl. He crossed his eyes, jerked his head, then sword-fought his way to the side of the Cadillac; teetering and stiff-legged, like an insane, duck-walking robot. With a final flourish, he stabbed the nozzle into the tank, then flicked the trigger daintily with the tip of a finger. "I just wanted to help!" he quacked again. It was always Three Stooges time for Earl.
Nearly in tears, the boy started to wash the windshield; at least he knew how to do that. The side windows were open, and even gas fumes couldn't hide the wonderful new-car smell of the upholstery. He didn't think he'd ever been in a Cadillac.
The door of the garage office screeched and banged, and there was Earl's father, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. A Catholic priest was with him, talking earnestly. The priest was very tall and thin and clean; his face was smooth and pale, and his teeth shone when he laughed, which seemed to be always. He was dressed in black, and wore a black wide-brimmed hat. "How much?" he asked Earl as they approached.
"Seven fifty. Big tank, eh?"
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