There is a petrol station near my home, and I’ve been meaning to tell you about it for awhile now.
    As a vehicle refueling facility it is, at best, average. The price per gallon is always within a penny or two of the neighboring Sunoco station, and it is slightly less convenient for me because it is not on the direct path out of my subdivision, like the therefore superior and aforementioned Sunoco.

    The odd thing about this gas station is that it has a symbiotic and intimate relationship with a Dawn Donuts bakery. You can purchase gasoline and fried/baked goods during the same visit and have a reasonable expectation that both will produce exhaust which falls within government mandates for clean air emmissions. I personally like the blueberry cake donuts, but will consider consumption of a custard donut if the occasion warrants.

    Deep within me is a hunger for blueberry flavored confections, and this place holds the key to unlocking satiation. More on this later.

    I lived at my home in Utica for no less than three years before setting foot in this nearby epicenter of petroleum and lipid proteins. But some weeks ago there was a gay wedding held in lovely Windsor, Ontario, and my family was on the move fairly early in our efforts to arrive in time to watch the fine ladies join in happy matrimony. And if you thought that sentence was long, you should’ve sat through the gay Reverend’s sermon. Blah, blah, blah. Hours before listening to his incessant droning about the struggles of the ‘community,’ I decided that I needed stimulants to get my day rolling along.

    We stopped and I stepped out, stroding into the establishment intending to purchase coffee.
    A slightly built young Pakistani man, no more than five and a half feet tall, stood behind the counter serving. There was a man who arrived before me being served, and I took station behind him, calmly resting my hands at my sides.

    We were not, however, alone in this place. Elderly men sat in chairs and on benches, reading newspapers and arguing about politics, cars, fishing and fashion*. Most were what I would call craggy or weathered. As I waited for my coffee, I saw the smiling Pakistani man wave to one of the old men, who knodded. A woman I assume to be the Pakistani’s wife stepped out from behind the counter and poured coffee for the geezer. The little old man knodded his thanks and went back to his French foreign legion debate**.

    For the next minute or two I observed this young Pakistani couple care for their cadre of elderly American white men as they bickered, joked and snored***.

    Finally I was allowed to request my donuts and coffee. I greedily salivated at the blueberry cake donuts remanded into my custody with which I would soon fill the gaping, blueberry cake shaped hole in my soul. (and you thought I forgot about the blueberry key) I also received into my custody a half-liter of coffee and made my escape.

    Days later I visited again, and noted the same geriatric gang, the same Pakistani fellow and his same wife. I watched the couple dote over the doddering men and reflected upon it.

    So I bring you this story for your amusement.
    A gas station with a bakery in it has become a gathering spot for elderly men who wish to engage in banter while being tended to by a couple of Pakistani shop keepers.

    How this couple, born so far away and in such a different culture, came to care for these grumpy old white men? They seem genuinely affectionate and gentle in their handling of them. From what little I know of their culture it is not likely they are intending to fatten the old men and eat them.

    Hmmm….

*They were pretty much just bitching about what the kids wear these days. Why, in their day young people wore a thick coat of elastic polyvinyl sprayed onto them by government assigned nozzle captains. And they had to be transported to school for MILES in vaccuum tubes surrounded by snow and ice.

***The snoring was produced by one bald fellow who had made his coat into a pillow and propped himself up in a vacant corner.