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Jordan sat slumped behind the desk, browsing a copy of "Hustler".  He looked grubby, with a three-day growth of beard.  Greasy curls fringed the edges of a New York Yankees stocking cap.  His filthy coveralls were streaked with oil and reeked of old sweat. He barely took notice of Jay through the grimy, cracked window.
    "He’s dressed good," Gene thought, and turned his attention back to Cherry Topps, whose main claim to fame was a freakishly large pair of breasts that were "all natural and certified".
    Gene never worried about the folks who were dressed well.  It was usually the ones who looked like trailer trash, driving the twenty-year-old beaters, who would try to do a drive-off and beat the bill for a tank full of fuel.
    This guy was in a new German car, wearing a nice leather jacket and new jeans.  Gene laughed to himself about the shoes.  If they were new, too, they sure wouldn’t be once the guy had to make his way inside to pay.  It was one of Gene’s games to leave the lot covered in snow and slush.  That way it would fill the shoes of those not smart enough to know they should be wearing boots.
    Most of the people who stopped at the station were "richies" and better off than him.  It was his way of showing them who was boss, getting them back for the working man.  It wasn’t the only odd habit he’d developed over the years.
    Originally, Gene had installed the self-serve pumps so that he could sit on his ass in the warmth of the office during the winter. As they say, the best laid plans often go awry.  He glanced up from his reading to check out the customer again, just in case. He scowled when he saw the man fiddling with the lever on the side of the pump.
    "Dammit!"
    The pump had been giving him fits for the past few months.  There hadn’t been any extra cash to fix it.  He slapped his magazine face down on the desk, open, so as not to lose his place, and headed out the door.
    Jay was still moving the pump lever back and forth when Gene walked up around the driver’s side of the car.
    "Having trouble?" asked Gene, with a crooked, gap-toothed smile.
    "Yeah, it doesn’t seem to want to start for me here," replied Jay.
    Gene stepped over the extended fueling hose, crowding Jay out of his way.
    "There’s a trick to it sometimes, ya see," he said, looking back over his shoulder at Jay. "You gotta give a whack to it."
    He took his fist and gave the pump a bash on the side.  Jay noticed a dent there about the size of a fist.  The electronic display remained blank.
    "Son of a bitch!"
    Gene turned back to Jay, who feigned interest, but was feeling the bite of the cold.  He was trying to remember whether you could get trench foot from slush-filled shoes.
    "Or maybe two."
    Gene laughed and hauled back with his fist, giving the pump a mighty wallop. There was some whirring and a clunk as the display came to life with large, orange LED numbers.
    "Damn Japs."
    Jay noted the panel on the front of the pump which said it had been manufactured in Michigan.  For a split second he considered correcting Gene, but it didn’t take a particularly sharp mind to realize it was a bad idea.
    Gene loped over to where the nozzle was thrust into the filler and gave the switch on the handle a squeeze.  The numbers ran on the display like a slot machine.  He eyeballed Jay with his dry, bloodshot eyes. Recognition flickered across his face.
    He tilted his head, grinned, and pointed a finger at Jay. "You know, you look mighty familiar."
    Jay was rubbing his hands together and shuffling his weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to keep warm.  He was used to the idea that sometimes there were people who gave him a look and thought that they recognized him.  It had happened quite a few times since the book had come out with that photograph of him on the jacket.
    "I get that a lot," he said. "I’m a writer."
    "Nah. That ain’t it," said Gene, as he scratched at his scalp through the stocking cap. "Not unless