News From The Clark Station (Jan) Readable
Created | Updated Feb 18, 2003
The Tuhy News Letter (January 2003 Edition)
Introduction To News From The Clark Station
It's been another long, drawn out week here at the Clark gas station, out here on the borders of sanity. We;re open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. As usual I come in to finish the old week and start the new one, along with working the night before. Clark Station 1350A is located on Jackson Street US 150, in Morton Illinois. We;re next to grocery store, and across from the pumpkin factory, less than 50 yards from the Railroad tracks.
News From the Clark Station
January Cold
It's cold, very cold. There is fresh snow on the ground, though not very much. On third shift, the cold can't keep people from coming out in force to feed their addictions, coming to me as I peddle two (caffeine and nicotine) of the last three legal drugs. Every customer that comes in complains about the cold. I discovered months earlier that it doesn't really matter how cold it is. Customers will complain about the cold. Once it drops below fifty degrees, everyone complains about the cold. Not just a customer or a large group of customers. You get below fifty, everyone, complains about the cold. The few that don;t, you have to watch. There are even those who will complain in the low to mid fifties. (I have a name for them) I know people would rather complain than have no car, gas prices, or temperatures to complain about.
This last week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I had to get up at 5:30am to be ready for my 7:00 o'clock class. What can I say? I;m slow in the mornings. Monday morning I experienced what it was like to pump gas in the bitter cold, the wind cutting beneath the clothes and skin right down to your core. Makes you feel naked before God. I went in and paid for my gas, all $14.07 worth, though that didn't buy half as much as I wanted it to. It wasn't 6:30 yet so Dale was still working. He's the usual third shift guy. I told him about how cold it was and that my toes were frozen together ready to break off like icicles hanging near the window panes. I felt moisture on the back of my neck, snow in my hair melting from the inside warmth. Bruce, one of the assistant managers, tells me to stop complaining. He's one to talk, but it's his way of "trying" to boss me around. I say to Dale: "Dale, what is he talking about? I'm sure I'm the first person tonight who's complained about the cold!" Dale and I got a good long laugh at that one.
When customers leave to go back to their vehicles, I sometimes tell them to "brave the cold". Now I know that bravery has nothing to do with it. But I am glad things aren't the way they used to be. When my father worked at a gas station (former grease monkeys of the world unite!) he had to pump gas and give full service, regardless of the weather. Maybe he was lucky and it was only a summer job. I'll have to find out.
I looked outside the gas station through the gigantic windows. I saw the light snow, viciously blown about by the character revealing wind. It looked like a Himalayan night midst. It reminded me of the beginning of a song:
"Blow, Blow, thou winter wind.
Blow, Blow, thou winter wind.
Thou art not so unkind, as man's ingratitude
As man's ingratitude"
The electronic bell rang as I opened the door and went out. Outside it felt like cold bitterness. My skin's response to nature's seething rage made the next verse come into mind:
"Freeze, Freeze, thou bitter sky.
Freeze, Freeze, thou bitter sky.
Thou does not bite so nigh, as benefits forgot.
As benefits forgot"
I opened the car door and closed it behind me. The key turned and the engine started to new life. Oh, I loved the car and its warm insides, though my love for it was mere folly.
"High ho, sing High ho. Unto the green holly,
most friendship is fading, most loving, mere folly,
and High ho, the holly,
This life is most jolly"
When I was inside the gas station, Bruce asked me what I was doing up at that time of day. It was a good question. Though I work 3rds on weekends and when Dale takes vacation, I was hardly ever up around six o'clock. I told Bruce I had to get to class, and that unlike some, I wasn't going to "waste my potential in here forever". Bruce is a good guy, a smart guy, though a little full of himself. Okay, quite full of himself, but I should be the last one to criticize that character flaw. Bruce has a lot of squandered potential just being a gas station's assistant manager. I still have an excuse being a teenager, but mid-twenties Bruce should have a college degree by now. I guess I shouldn't be so hard on him, since he is from Tennessee after all. Bruce told me (rather defensively) he was going to back to school in the fall. I didn't believe him, cause he tends to B.S. me when he sounds defensive. As I left, I told him I hoped he wasn't lying to me, a parting slash in our dialogue.
Still, Bruce asked a good question. What was I doing getting up at 5:30 in the morning? As I drove to school I tried to remember the last time I got up at 5:30am. I'd never gotten up at that ungodly hour before, except for one time when my friend woke me up.
It was warm then, I remember it being a Tuesday in June. 5:30 in the morning. This must be Holy time, for only God's grace could save me from such cranial excruciation (meaning my head hurt). I woke up slowly, rising from my back to sit up in bed. Out the window next to my bed I heard the bouncing of a basketball, the sound that woke me up. I looked at the clock and asked myself what the world was coming to. I continued to listen to the bouncing of the basketball, listening to five or so dribbles before I'd hear the ball clang against the rim or sail smoothly through the hoop's net. I pulled aside the blinds and looked out my window. It was only 5:30 in the morning, but sunlight poured in and flooded the room. I looked out to see my friend Doc dribbling the ball against the worn concrete of my driveway. Every so often he would pull up for a jump shot. Taking in the sight, I had to admit to myself, as an artist, that he could be the subject for a timeless work.
Doc was wearing only shoes and soccer shorts that morning. As he jumped for a rebound, I could see all of his muscles work as one. I could see his entire body flexing as his strong, lean muscles contracted. The poetry of motion showed the muscle grooves on his body in the glow of the morning light. The many beads of sweat from exercise glistened and accented his natural beauty. He wipes the sweat off his forehead and runs his hands through his dark, thick, curly hair. His course hair hangs attractively on his head, though it hadn't been combed yet. Like a Hollywood star his hair naturally lay perfectly. He wipes the sweat off the sides of his face, and my eyes are drawn there. Doc is the only friend of mine under 21 that can grow a goatee that looks good. He looks up and sees that I'm watching him, acts indifferent, and then keeps shooting around.
Only my fatigue reduces my fury at being roused at 5:30am. I threw on a nearby pair of jeans and without shoes angrily raced outside. "What are you doing?" I said at a near shout. He looked calmly at me and replied, "You were supposed to get the lawn done before Tuesday morning, Tuhy." That's what he calls me) "If you don't get it done before your father gets up, I wouldn't want to be you". He had gotten up to awake me at 5:30 so I'd avoid getting in trouble.
Doc communicates more through actions than words. He didn't tell me that he cares, but instead sacrificed sleep to help me out. It turns to 5:40 in the morning, and Doc gets ready to start his morning run. My father gets up to find me working on the lawn, and is pleased at the sight. He goes out for doughnuts, and I thank the Lord for a father who is an early riser and a doughnut getter. I work on the lawn, and Doc circles back during his run after I'm finished. He finds me on the porch, eating an early breakfast. He will suggest that I work to get in shape, and invite me to join him for the rest of his run. I say: "I can't hear you!" with my mouth stuffed with a bite of a fresh glazed doughnut. I refuse because I'm tired and it's Tuesday, and know he'll ask again tomorrow.
After saving me from a parental lecture, Doc continues on with his morning routine, and I go back to sleep. I wake up again at 9am, hearing my faithful alarm clock outside, the bouncing of the ball working as the second hand.
Ah memories. Let me count the ways (that they hurt). Now hear I am, back to the routine of 3rd shift. And let me tell you, it's bitter cold outside. At least the coffee's warm, warm and fresh. One of the last legal drugs. The only legal drug I don't peddle is alcohol, and I'm right glad for it. Right now I know my job is one rung above liquor store clerk, and I'd like to keep it that way. The fact is that it would take a small miracle to change it. It's almost impossible to get a liquor license in Morton Illinois.
At night, the station is the only thing open, save the grocery stores and factories. The inside of the Clark station glows bright with fluorescent light. At night the light projects out through the full-size windows in front, making the station look like a lit fish bowl in a dark room. Inside the fish bowl I stand and stare out into the night, looking east, anticipating the sun. I like looking through large windows such as these, particularly to the East. Reminded of something earlier in the week I open my notebook on the counter and read:
"January 13, 2003" (written while sun gazing on the ICC bridge walkway, looking out eastward toward the parking lots, Approx 10:00am)
"I look at the sidewalks, shaped like a Y.
Beneath there are hundreds, many passers by.
Some walk with great speed to get out of the cold.
Some walk with disdain, nearly trampling the old.
Some are familiar, others are not, but what does is matter?"
"I see many passers by as I sit near these walls of windows. It makes me wonder about the meaning of things, the meaning of life. I watch people constantly moving in and out of this place of learning. This place of learning for the less fortunate, the lackadaisical, or seekers of convenience, but a place of learning none the less. The sidewalk beneath the bridge branches out toward the lots, in the shape of a large Y. Perhaps this is why the question why, came into my head in the first place."
"Is life like this, constantly in motion, moving in and out of the cold, a never ending progression and process? Honestly I do not know, but I am forced to wonder if this time in front of these windows is a metaphor for my recent life, watching silently as the flood of people and beauty go by?"
"I suppose the people are not a flood, but are more like the tide. A never ending tide, rapidly rising and falling as people go in and out. In my mind I compare this human tide to the tide of the oceans, and I wonder. I wonder: which is more powerful, the slow, steady, consistent tide of the ocean or the unpredictable motions and crests of man? Which one shall outlast the other? I suppose both are there but for the grace and will of God. And I am left pondering and in wonder. So here's to the process, and to the one who understands it, from one mortal who dares ponder the question."
I close the notebook, and keep looking out Eastward into the night, waiting for the dawn. It's still freezing outside in these very early hours of the morning. Outside a customer pumps his gas and proclaims it to be "damn cold". Ain't that the truth. I speak to him with the intercom: "Well, at least the coffee's warm. Come on in". The coffee usually isn't fresh between midnight and 5:00. But I'll make this guy a fresh pot, after all, it's the least I can do.
That's the news from the Clark Station, where the women are strong, where all the men are semi-good looking, and all of the workers are above average.
By Micah Tuhy
Introduction To News From The Clark Station
It's been another long, drawn out week here at the Clark gas station, out here on the borders of sanity. We;re open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. As usual I come in to finish the old week and start the new one, along with working the night before. Clark Station 1350A is located on Jackson Street US 150, in Morton Illinois. We;re next to grocery store, and across from the pumpkin factory, less than 50 yards from the Railroad tracks.
News From the Clark Station
January Cold
It's cold, very cold. There is fresh snow on the ground, though not very much. On third shift, the cold can't keep people from coming out in force to feed their addictions, coming to me as I peddle two (caffeine and nicotine) of the last three legal drugs. Every customer that comes in complains about the cold. I discovered months earlier that it doesn't really matter how cold it is. Customers will complain about the cold. Once it drops below fifty degrees, everyone complains about the cold. Not just a customer or a large group of customers. You get below fifty, everyone, complains about the cold. The few that don;t, you have to watch. There are even those who will complain in the low to mid fifties. (I have a name for them) I know people would rather complain than have no car, gas prices, or temperatures to complain about.
This last week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I had to get up at 5:30am to be ready for my 7:00 o'clock class. What can I say? I;m slow in the mornings. Monday morning I experienced what it was like to pump gas in the bitter cold, the wind cutting beneath the clothes and skin right down to your core. Makes you feel naked before God. I went in and paid for my gas, all $14.07 worth, though that didn't buy half as much as I wanted it to. It wasn't 6:30 yet so Dale was still working. He's the usual third shift guy. I told him about how cold it was and that my toes were frozen together ready to break off like icicles hanging near the window panes. I felt moisture on the back of my neck, snow in my hair melting from the inside warmth. Bruce, one of the assistant managers, tells me to stop complaining. He's one to talk, but it's his way of "trying" to boss me around. I say to Dale: "Dale, what is he talking about? I'm sure I'm the first person tonight who's complained about the cold!" Dale and I got a good long laugh at that one.
When customers leave to go back to their vehicles, I sometimes tell them to "brave the cold". Now I know that bravery has nothing to do with it. But I am glad things aren't the way they used to be. When my father worked at a gas station (former grease monkeys of the world unite!) he had to pump gas and give full service, regardless of the weather. Maybe he was lucky and it was only a summer job. I'll have to find out.
I looked outside the gas station through the gigantic windows. I saw the light snow, viciously blown about by the character revealing wind. It looked like a Himalayan night midst. It reminded me of the beginning of a song:
"Blow, Blow, thou winter wind.
Blow, Blow, thou winter wind.
Thou art not so unkind, as man's ingratitude
As man's ingratitude"
The electronic bell rang as I opened the door and went out. Outside it felt like cold bitterness. My skin's response to nature's seething rage made the next verse come into mind:
"Freeze, Freeze, thou bitter sky.
Freeze, Freeze, thou bitter sky.
Thou does not bite so nigh, as benefits forgot.
As benefits forgot"
I opened the car door and closed it behind me. The key turned and the engine started to new life. Oh, I loved the car and its warm insides, though my love for it was mere folly.
"High ho, sing High ho. Unto the green holly,
most friendship is fading, most loving, mere folly,
and High ho, the holly,
This life is most jolly"
When I was inside the gas station, Bruce asked me what I was doing up at that time of day. It was a good question. Though I work 3rds on weekends and when Dale takes vacation, I was hardly ever up around six o'clock. I told Bruce I had to get to class, and that unlike some, I wasn't going to "waste my potential in here forever". Bruce is a good guy, a smart guy, though a little full of himself. Okay, quite full of himself, but I should be the last one to criticize that character flaw. Bruce has a lot of squandered potential just being a gas station's assistant manager. I still have an excuse being a teenager, but mid-twenties Bruce should have a college degree by now. I guess I shouldn't be so hard on him, since he is from Tennessee after all. Bruce told me (rather defensively) he was going to back to school in the fall. I didn't believe him, cause he tends to B.S. me when he sounds defensive. As I left, I told him I hoped he wasn't lying to me, a parting slash in our dialogue.
Still, Bruce asked a good question. What was I doing getting up at 5:30 in the morning? As I drove to school I tried to remember the last time I got up at 5:30am. I'd never gotten up at that ungodly hour before, except for one time when my friend woke me up.
It was warm then, I remember it being a Tuesday in June. 5:30 in the morning. This must be Holy time, for only God's grace could save me from such cranial excruciation (meaning my head hurt). I woke up slowly, rising from my back to sit up in bed. Out the window next to my bed I heard the bouncing of a basketball, the sound that woke me up. I looked at the clock and asked myself what the world was coming to. I continued to listen to the bouncing of the basketball, listening to five or so dribbles before I'd hear the ball clang against the rim or sail smoothly through the hoop's net. I pulled aside the blinds and looked out my window. It was only 5:30 in the morning, but sunlight poured in and flooded the room. I looked out to see my friend Doc dribbling the ball against the worn concrete of my driveway. Every so often he would pull up for a jump shot. Taking in the sight, I had to admit to myself, as an artist, that he could be the subject for a timeless work.
Doc was wearing only shoes and soccer shorts that morning. As he jumped for a rebound, I could see all of his muscles work as one. I could see his entire body flexing as his strong, lean muscles contracted. The poetry of motion showed the muscle grooves on his body in the glow of the morning light. The many beads of sweat from exercise glistened and accented his natural beauty. He wipes the sweat off his forehead and runs his hands through his dark, thick, curly hair. His course hair hangs attractively on his head, though it hadn't been combed yet. Like a Hollywood star his hair naturally lay perfectly. He wipes the sweat off the sides of his face, and my eyes are drawn there. Doc is the only friend of mine under 21 that can grow a goatee that looks good. He looks up and sees that I'm watching him, acts indifferent, and then keeps shooting around.
Only my fatigue reduces my fury at being roused at 5:30am. I threw on a nearby pair of jeans and without shoes angrily raced outside. "What are you doing?" I said at a near shout. He looked calmly at me and replied, "You were supposed to get the lawn done before Tuesday morning, Tuhy." That's what he calls me) "If you don't get it done before your father gets up, I wouldn't want to be you". He had gotten up to awake me at 5:30 so I'd avoid getting in trouble.
Doc communicates more through actions than words. He didn't tell me that he cares, but instead sacrificed sleep to help me out. It turns to 5:40 in the morning, and Doc gets ready to start his morning run. My father gets up to find me working on the lawn, and is pleased at the sight. He goes out for doughnuts, and I thank the Lord for a father who is an early riser and a doughnut getter. I work on the lawn, and Doc circles back during his run after I'm finished. He finds me on the porch, eating an early breakfast. He will suggest that I work to get in shape, and invite me to join him for the rest of his run. I say: "I can't hear you!" with my mouth stuffed with a bite of a fresh glazed doughnut. I refuse because I'm tired and it's Tuesday, and know he'll ask again tomorrow.
After saving me from a parental lecture, Doc continues on with his morning routine, and I go back to sleep. I wake up again at 9am, hearing my faithful alarm clock outside, the bouncing of the ball working as the second hand.
Ah memories. Let me count the ways (that they hurt). Now hear I am, back to the routine of 3rd shift. And let me tell you, it's bitter cold outside. At least the coffee's warm, warm and fresh. One of the last legal drugs. The only legal drug I don't peddle is alcohol, and I'm right glad for it. Right now I know my job is one rung above liquor store clerk, and I'd like to keep it that way. The fact is that it would take a small miracle to change it. It's almost impossible to get a liquor license in Morton Illinois.
At night, the station is the only thing open, save the grocery stores and factories. The inside of the Clark station glows bright with fluorescent light. At night the light projects out through the full-size windows in front, making the station look like a lit fish bowl in a dark room. Inside the fish bowl I stand and stare out into the night, looking east, anticipating the sun. I like looking through large windows such as these, particularly to the East. Reminded of something earlier in the week I open my notebook on the counter and read:
"January 13, 2003" (written while sun gazing on the ICC bridge walkway, looking out eastward toward the parking lots, Approx 10:00am)
"I look at the sidewalks, shaped like a Y.
Beneath there are hundreds, many passers by.
Some walk with great speed to get out of the cold.
Some walk with disdain, nearly trampling the old.
Some are familiar, others are not, but what does is matter?"
"I see many passers by as I sit near these walls of windows. It makes me wonder about the meaning of things, the meaning of life. I watch people constantly moving in and out of this place of learning. This place of learning for the less fortunate, the lackadaisical, or seekers of convenience, but a place of learning none the less. The sidewalk beneath the bridge branches out toward the lots, in the shape of a large Y. Perhaps this is why the question why, came into my head in the first place."
"Is life like this, constantly in motion, moving in and out of the cold, a never ending progression and process? Honestly I do not know, but I am forced to wonder if this time in front of these windows is a metaphor for my recent life, watching silently as the flood of people and beauty go by?"
"I suppose the people are not a flood, but are more like the tide. A never ending tide, rapidly rising and falling as people go in and out. In my mind I compare this human tide to the tide of the oceans, and I wonder. I wonder: which is more powerful, the slow, steady, consistent tide of the ocean or the unpredictable motions and crests of man? Which one shall outlast the other? I suppose both are there but for the grace and will of God. And I am left pondering and in wonder. So here's to the process, and to the one who understands it, from one mortal who dares ponder the question."
I close the notebook, and keep looking out Eastward into the night, waiting for the dawn. It's still freezing outside in these very early hours of the morning. Outside a customer pumps his gas and proclaims it to be "damn cold". Ain't that the truth. I speak to him with the intercom: "Well, at least the coffee's warm. Come on in". The coffee usually isn't fresh between midnight and 5:00. But I'll make this guy a fresh pot, after all, it's the least I can do.
That's the news from the Clark Station, where the women are strong, where all the men are semi-good looking, and all of the workers are above average.
By Micah Tuhy
