The most complicated and anxiety inducing interpersonal relationships I have right now are with the Libyan gas station attendants down the street.
I am in the passenger seat of Dan’s Jetta.
“These guys love me here,” he says. “They fixed my tire for super cheap.”
“Oh,” I say. “The old one weirds me out. I don’t think he works here anymore. He teased my dog with the dog bones.” I have a hard time trusting someone who fucks with my dog.
The attendant leans into my window and looks to Dan.
“20,” Dan automatically replies.
“Um, do you have any Visine?” I ask.
“Hm?” he asks.
“Visine,” I say.
“Huh?” he asks.
“Visine. The eye drops. Visine.” I mime using eye drops because I’m really high and need eye drops so badly. I don’t know if it’s just the way my eyes are or if it’s because of my contacts, but after smoking marijuana my eyes become incredibly dry and my contacts start to shift around on my eyeball.
He stares at me cooly before responding in perfect English with, “I know what Visine is. We don’t have it.”
I proceed to die in the passenger seat because I assume he assumed that I was just a racist white lady who thought he didn’t understand my English, when really my attempts at using pretend eye drops was just a byproduct of splitting a blunt and not knowing how to communicate with human beings like a normal person.
“Can I get a sticker?” I ask.
“Pull in,” the man in a mechanic’s onesie says.
I drive into their wall.
“Will this car pass for a sticker?” I ask, knowing the legal answer is a no.
“Bring it in.”
“Thanks! Well, I don’t have the money now. Can you do it Saturday?”
“Bring it in Saturday. Make sure I’m here.”
I never come in on Saturday. I spend Sunday wondering how much more injustice the Libyans can really handle, as this occurs a week or two after the Libyan protests and revolts.
“You need a new sticker,” he says before sending me off.
“I know, but I’m getting a new car? I’m getting a new car so I don’t want to get this sticker? I’m getting a new car?” I am an insane person with no social skills.
“This is a 3, we’re in 4. We’re in 4.”
“I know? April is 4, I know? But I’m getting a new car? I’ll bring it in? I’ll bring it in, I promise, I’ll bring it in here? I’ll bring it in.” I sound like a lunatic, but I feel so bad for all of my broken promises to these attendants who probably don’t remember me at all. Pulling away, I know that I will never get my sticker from them because I can’t face them ever again. It’s too much. It’s too exhausting. Too many things go wrong.
I am never getting my gas pumped there again. I don’t care how rainy it is or how tired I am, I’m pumping it myself at Cumberland’s.