Midway, KY is a strange place to stop for gas

November 19, 2006

So Friday night I had to make a quick trip down to Lexington (the Circuit City in Lexington was the closest with the particular model of laptop I wanted to get). Now since it was Friday the tank in my car was not full of course, so I had to stop for gas along the way. I ended up at the Midway, KY exit because I figured I’d best fill the tank before I got into Lexington. I’m paranoid that way, I always think I might get stuck in some huge traffic jam so I fill up before reaching a city so that I won’t run out of gas if I do get stuck.

There’s only one station at this exit, an ancient Citgo. And I mean ancient–it took me a couple minutes to realize the pump had no credit card reader. Because these were probably the original pumps installed when they built this particular station, way back in the 70’s judging from the look of things.

So I had to go into the station to pay for the gas, the minute you open the door to the station a miasma of cigarette odor blankets you. I’ve never understood why people working at a gas station would smoke. They’re standing on top of several thousand gallons of gasoline, it doesn’t seem safe to be puffing away with that right below you.

But the two ladies at the counter didn’t seem too concerned. They were so much the stereotype that many people have of Kentuckians. The older woman had several missing teeth, and the ones she retained were not what you would call pearly whites. Hadn’t been anywhere near whites in quite some time I would guess. Not clear if the staining was from the smoking or decades of coffee or what.

The younger woman had that too-much-hair-spray look, keeping the hair perfectly still as she moved and talked. You had to wonder if her smoking would one day light up all the hair spray accumulated in her follicles and ignite into an inferno.

They both looked at me with a look that said they probably don’t see a lot of Filipinos coming thru these parts. I wanted to put them at ease so I grabbed a small bag of pork rinds and paid for those along with the tank of gas. Just to let them know that I too was once from the trailer-park (metaphorically–we don’t really have trailer parks in the Philippines, but I used to live in a hut and that comes pretty close. Still have relatives who live in dirt-floor huts).

Seemed to work, the ladies smiled at me and wished me a good night as I left.