The Consulate

Made a friend at the gas station that I'll think about forever.

Pumping gas in LA is a constant. It’s similar to what I imagine feeding a horse on a long trip would be. You have to find gas stations along your regular routes that don’t fall into the category of either insanely expensive because they know you don’t have any other options for miles, and cheap, but only because they mix their gas with more ethanol and it evaporates in your tank faster. (I have an ongoing rant about this that I will expel onto anyone that agrees to listen.)

I was at one of my favorite gas stations in North Hollywood when I noticed a man yelling obscenities at odd intervals. He was very tall and thin, and wearing too many jackets. Every garment he was wearing had turned that dark, blackish brown with an olive hue that seems to only come from living outside. A monochrome marker of neglect. He swore some more and then apologized to me.

“Sometimes I can control it, but I can’t help it. It’s hard.”

“That’s okay! I understand.”

I went inside to pay for my gas and saw the same lady I saw for days and years before.

“Is that guy bothering you out there?”

“Not at all. I think he’s just not well.”

“I had to kick him out because he smells so bad. But he seems nice!”

I paid for my gas and got in my car. I could see the man from the open passenger’s side window of my car. He was standing in between pumps, listless.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you want something to eat?”

“Oh no, I can’t accept that.”

He paused.

“Was it approved by The Consulate?”

I assured him that it had. He took a few granola bars and a water bottle, but refused to leave me without payment.

“Give them my blessing.”

He rummaged around in one of his many pockets and tossed a ketchup packet onto the passenger's seat of my car through the open window.

“Thank you!”

“Have a nice day.”

I think about this man and millions of people like him often. Those of us just tethered enough to reality to recognize why society has discarded them. Doing their best to assimilate and stay safe. I imagine how maddening it would be to know the version of you that won’t get kicked out of a gas station is in there somewhere, you just can’t access them at will.

I think that’s why people scream in the street sometimes, cursing whatever god will listen about the dismissal of their existence by the world around them. Not because they’re “gone” but because they’re still in there. Sometimes they don’t scream at all, hoarse from begging for help, peace, mercy or justice until they can barely whisper. Quiet enough to drown out, so the rest of us can hear what we should do next as to not become them.

I wish I could have given that tall man at the gas station a place to stay. That I didn’t have to weigh the pros and cons of my own safety over helping a stranger who clearly needed it. That there was someone, someplace I could’ve called that wouldn’t have just made his life worse, that would have truly helped him. Somewhere he could rest and take a shower, and didn’t have to apologize for himself. He deserves a place like that. The Consulate should approve.

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