Cheap Old Gas

Off the highway, the barren landscape faced an expansive gorge where pallor was created by the beating sun. Such was the unassuming, serene background that lived before the metal rails separating the water and the artless, yellow highway, behind which lay the rising slopes of arid soil.

Where the road bent was the gas station canopy that dawned shade over the pumps, absent of cars save a glistening C10 Chevy parked since the break of dusk. Two pumps at the end of the canopy faced the Texaco building to which it was connected; they were cubical, short, absent of digital screens and chip readers—the numbers rolled on analog dials, churning over when gasoline dispensed from the nozzles. Life was barren around the small convenience store, painted with a white that reflected the landscape.

Around one in the afternoon, the highway was empty. Tumbleweed and unsung winds procured more presence than the noise of an approaching Ford Pinto, if not an Oldsmobile that chugged for ethyl in its gorging throat. And upon the noiseless air, a metallic vehicle would occasionally materialize from nothing. It was expected roughly every two weeks.

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On the very first encounter, a coupe projected a low whistle through its bumper, appearing from nothing but thin air. Narrow headlights merged seamlessly with the body lines that were low and articulated around the slick wheel wells. The outlandish car approached the pump, churning pebbles beneath the tires that sported chromatic rims.

A woman rose into the stagnant heat when the hybrid motor shut off. Her pale complexion mimicked the air as she faced the gorge momentarily, black hair flitting gently before turning toward the Texaco store. Her low boots clicked pleasantly into the crumbling pavement.

An old man in overalls named Harry exited the Texaco store and ran out before she approached. The dins of a rusting door chime clinked gracelessly; mildew wafted past her manicured face as he hobbled toward her.

Harry halted in his tracks; his hands were low by his flank as he appraised this anomaly that had just manifested from nothing: a spellcasting witch? A messenger from the heavens? A woman in an outlandish coupe?

Harry felt a fright he could not explain, the same disillusion one must have experienced having encountered the third kind, yet the woman was scarcely apart from the otherworldly save a perplexing attire. She was complete, beautiful, and arrived with nothing but a car at a gas station.

"What in Christ are you?" Harry inquired vividly, panicked and failing to process the situation.

The woman approached him steadily without looking in his eyes, striding one foot in front of the other. She sauntered with swagger. Elegance. Harry ambled backward, but she paused before him.

"I'm a time traveler, and I'd like to refuel my car. Fill regular?"

Harry ogled into her brown eyes, dumbstruck by the situation. "You're... a what?"

"A time traveler?"

"Woman, that's science fiction."

She glanced behind her before returning her gaze. "Isn't my car science fiction to you?"

Harry widened his blue eyes in disbelief. The car was truly a design outside of reality; nothing he had ever seen manufactured resembled what lay before him. Even the most fantastical Batmobile was but a jester's attraction before such a work of engineering.

From there, Harry allowed her without a word. He watched her casual movements as she attached the fuel nozzle to her car, watching the dials turn before returning everything to its place upon completion. She even procured American cash in payment, which was blankly accepted with an open palm. Her only request was to keep a low profile, toward which he had no issue, for he genuinely could not discern whether she was a time traveler or an unspoken god.