This evening I pulled into a gas station, filled out the application for a reverse mortgage so I could fill my tank, and while the gas dripped into the tank with the same speed as a blood transfusion, an oxidized blue beater sedan pinged up to the pump, parking askew, almost at a 90 degree angle. A tall, painfully thin young man slowly unfolded himself from the car and zombie-walked to the pump, staring at it between infrequent button jabbing. He reminded me of the people I used to deal with who were high on PCP. A long, long time later, when my tank was almost full, he was just putting the nozzle in his.
I leaned over to the car opposite me and said, “Does this seem to be taking longer than usual?”
“Yes,” she said. “Do you think one of us should talk to the guy?”
Thinking she meant the gas station attendant, I shook my head. “Naw. It’s almost full now. I guess I can wait another few minutes.”
“But, don’t you think he might need help? He’s moving so slowly, like maybe he can’t figure it out.”
My gaze swung over to the zombie. I was pretty sure the pasty white skin and dark circles around his eyes were an indicator of being undead. “I was talking about the gas. It is taking a long time to pump.” I nodded my head toward the walking corpse. “No way am I going to approach that guy.”
I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t even be able to outrun a zombie, so I’m not taking any risks. I did stand-by while she approached him and asked if he needed help. Luckily, he gave a couple of grunts that he didn’t need intervention. At least no gas pump intervention.
Happy Valentine's Day.