from my billfold I glance up… my tiny car seems so insignificant, anonymous…almost invisible.

on pump No. 4 I see a tall white truck with 7 foot Texas longhorns strapped to a wrap around deer guard. behind the wheel is a tall Cowboyhat Man. He gets out, walks across the black asphalt parkinglot, slides through the Quickstop double doors to the front register in his Lee jeans.

At gaspump No. 5, a Lowrider pulls in. Sleek, deep black… with an immaculate airbrush ghost of the sons and daughters of revolution painted on each side…. the Lowrider inches forward, pumps up and down, pumps up and down on its magnificent hydrawlics. Our cash register boys can’t even concentrate long enough to make change to Cowboyhat Man as they stare in awe, faces pressed up closely against the window talking to each other excitedly.

I grip my billfold tightly. Wonder aloud where I am…. then this seattle girl moves carefully to the passenger side…. ducking down to let moBoy drive. It is only three blocks past DelRio street…. the trees surrounding us with black birds.