Station Three

I'd sit outside my father's auto body shop in the middle of a downpour, and just listen to the melody each drop tapped on the sparkle-studded pavement. The dirty grease stains never would come out of my favorite pair of jeans, and my shirts always smelled of oil. They'd stubbornly cling to the cotton and denim, claiming refuge from the gas pump. Everything changed when it rained. The mechanics did their work inside, with the large doors blocking the light of the outside world. On those days, I staffed the main desk. I had multitudes of coloring books and crayons stashed under the desk for the down time. I returned to my childhood on rainy days. The excitement of learning the names on the crayons, finally matching words to colors, and the satisfaction of peeling away the outer wrapper made me four years old again- small white light-up shoes and all. The collaboration of wax and crumpled paper was hung up on the walls, random thumbtacks keeping the drawings in place. I'd color until the bell rung above my head, signaling my service was needed.

The customers were more interesting when it rained. We got the few strange people come into the shop office because station three never printed a receipt, only for it to become soaking wet and unintelligible in the mad dash to their car. Then there were the ones who would be ever-so-grateful for the service station. I'd dart between the raindrops, getting absolutely soaked while the occupants of the car looked at each other awkwardly. I craved that uncomfortable atmosphere, and relished the quick, unsure glances the customers gave me. They perceived an unintelligent girl in faded jeans and a low cut shirt, working for the tips the older men gave. In reality, I only did it for the smell of rain and gasoline.