Strange Conversations While Pumping Gas
David Mihalyov His beard mostly grey, unkempt, the man looks at me like he wants to talk. I’m tired, ten hours on the road, and all I want is to fill the tank and go. I start pumping but he’s not deterred. I’m from way up north, he says. Past Ottawa. Once you get a little outside the city there’s nothing. As if a thruway stop near Utica is the height of civilization. He’s jittery, shifting from foot to foot, like he’s ready for the fiddle to signal the start of the next song at the barn dance, a jug of shine stashed in some corner, but that’s my ignorance shining through. A tractor-trailer slowly inches past, gears grinding to get to merging speed, and for a moment I’m lost watching cars jockey for position to avoid that lane. He talks about the difficulties using a card to pre-pay at the pump. What’s wrong with cash, he asks. I ask what he does and he smiles. A little trapping, a little mining. A life that could have been led 200 years ago. Why he was so far from home was unclear, but we all come from somewhere so I wished him well in New York and left. |
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About the Author:
David Mihalyov lives outside of Rochester, NY, with his wife, two daughters, and two dogs. His poems have appeared in several journals, including Concho River Review, Free State Review, and Naugatuck River Review. He's still waiting for the Cubs to win the World Series.
David Mihalyov lives outside of Rochester, NY, with his wife, two daughters, and two dogs. His poems have appeared in several journals, including Concho River Review, Free State Review, and Naugatuck River Review. He's still waiting for the Cubs to win the World Series.
