Knox
“Hey, I’m not feeling this gas station,” I say oh-so-casually, in spite of my screaming bladder and even more loudly howling conscience. “Let’s hit another one.”
“I know, but.”
“But we’re already here.”
“I’m trying to boycott Conoco.”
“First of all: Why? Second of all: literally the last gas station we stopped at was a Conoco and you uttered not a peep.”
“Uh. Because of the oil spill.” (I assumed there was one.)
“What oil spill?”
“The one in the Gulf of Mexico.” (I assumed there was one.)
“That was BP.”
“Oh.”
Sylvie parks in front of a gas pump.
Now I’m really in a bind. I have to pee too bad to wait for her to gas up, but I can’t go in. “Can we please just go to the one across the way?” I don’t even want to get out of the van to run to the other gas station.
“The one where gas is two cents more per gallon?”
“Please?”
Sylvie sighs. “Whatever.” She starts the van, puts it in gear, and drives away.