The Texaco

The Texaco

The Texaco station on the A57 closes at eleven. The pumps lock. The kiosk goes dark. The shutter comes down over the window with a sound like a zip on a jacket. A man in a hi-vis locks the door and walks to a blue Nissan parked by the air machine and drives away.

One light stays on. The security light over the forecourt. It's not bright. It's the colour of weak tea. It makes a rectangle on the concrete that's roughly the size of a parking space. The rectangle doesn't move. It's there all night. It's there right now.

A woman sits on the kerb at the edge of the forecourt. Not in the rectangle. Next to it. Her back is against the low wall that separates the station from the pavement. She has a rucksack on the ground beside her. It's not packed heavy. It's packed careful. The difference matters.

She works at the care home on the other side of the A57. The night shift. She finished at midnight. She doesn't walk home for another forty minutes. She sits here instead.

The price board still shows today's numbers. 139.9 for unleaded. 145.9 for diesel. The numbers will change tomorrow when the man in the hi-vis comes back and climbs up with his pole and hooks the new digits in place. For now they're yesterday's prices. She likes that. Yesterday's prices on a closed forecourt at 1 AM. The numbers are true but they're not active. They're not asking anyone to buy. They're just there. Holding their place.

She takes a sandwich from her rucksack. She made it at the care home kitchen during her break. Cheese and pickle on brown bread. Wrapped in cling film. She eats it slowly. She's not hungry. She's not not-hungry. She's eating because the sandwich is there and she made it and making things that you later use is a way of being kind to yourself that no one talks about.

The road is quiet. A car goes past every few minutes. None of them turn in. The pumps are locked. The kiosk is dark. The shutters are down. The sign says TEXACO in red letters that are dimmer at night. The red is more of a rust.

She doesn't know why she sits here. She told herself it was because the bench at the bus stop is wet. That was the first time. Three weeks ago. The bench was wet and the kerb was dry and she sat here because it was dry. But the bench has been dry other nights and she's still come here. She comes here because it's the half-hour between work and home where she doesn't have to be anything to anyone. Not the care assistant. Not the daughter. Not the tenant. Not the woman in the mirror who looks tired and needs to do laundry.

The security light holds its rectangle. The price board holds its numbers. The sign holds its red. Everything here is holding. That's what she likes about it. The closed petrol station holds its shape all night without anyone watching. It doesn't need her to be there. It doesn't need her at all. The holding is the whole job and the holding doesn't need a witness.

She finishes the sandwich. She folds the cling film into a square and puts it in the side pocket of her rucksack. She stands. Her knees ache. Twelve hours on her feet. The ache is real. The ache is the body saying I was here and I worked and I carried the weight of other people's nights.

She puts the rucksack on. Both straps. She doesn't do the one-strap thing. Both straps means business. Both straps means the walk is real.

She walks. She turns left onto the A57. The Texaco sign gets smaller behind her. The security light holds its rectangle on the empty forecourt. The price board holds yesterday's numbers. The red letters hold their rust.

Tomorrow the man in the hi-vis will come back and unlock the pumps and climb the price board and change the numbers and the station will be active again. But right now it's closed and it's holding and she's walking home and the road is quiet and the rucksack is light because she packed it careful and the careful is the only kind of heavy she has left.

The road goes dark between the streetlights. She walks through the dark parts. She doesn't hurry. The dark parts are where the road is most honest. The dark parts don't have prices.

She turns off the A57 onto the side street where her flat is. She doesn't look back. The Texaco doesn't look back either. The holding doesn't need a witness. The witness doesn't need the holding.

They were both there. That's enough. That's the whole transaction.