A Collected Work of My Personal Narratives and Drafts

A Stop at a Gas Station

Warning: There are mentions of my deceased father

A Stop at a Gas Station

     There is no way I am making this light.  Can’t I catch a break?   

     Great—I am almost out of gas. I should pull into the gas station up the road.   

     Now I’m holding up traffic—this day sucks.

    I turn right into the gas station, open my door,  turn my car off, start the gas pump up, and throw myself back into my sweet Dakota and recline my seat.  I start my music back up to fill the silence.    

    “Why on Earth is this tune so deep?  It’s too rough.  It seems so sad.” 

    I don’t even recognize this song, maybe I—

    “Wait—This is “Patches!” 

    I love this song—Dad and I loved listening to this song.  The lyrics start to flow through the car like a cold wind.  Oddly sharp, a distinct chill fills the cab. My fingers feel a cold breeze and goosebumps slowly climb up my arm, moving past the elbow, and into my shoulder.  From there it fans out over my torso and I get a distinct shiver. Then it makes its way to my right shoulder, down my arm, past the elbow, and finally into each fingertip before dissipating entirely.  

    “Patches” keeps playing on the radio: My papa was a great old man, I can see him with a shovel in his hands.

      The song seems to get louder as it echoes along in my head. Eventually I feel the lyrics rise through my gut and into my throat before finally leaving my mouth.   “One day Papa called me to his dyin' bed; Put his hands on my shoulders; And in his tears he said.” Every sound that leaves my mouth is a broken mess that is about as far off pitch as you could get.  It is questionable if it is singing at this point. 

I wonder when I first heard this song?

As I scour the thick library of memories in hopes of figuring out the origins to this unusual song, I can’t seem to find anything.  

    “I'm dependin' on you, son; To pull the family through.”

    The lyrics flow through my brain and fall off my lips as botched and off pitch as possible.  Finally, it hits me--I know exactly where I’ve heard this beautiful song.  I can imagine it like I am still there, back when I was only eight or nine years old.  I am taken back to when I sound younger.  I am riding in the passenger’s seat of my parents' traverse.  I see Dad to my left, driving the family car. I look to my right and there is the Mississippi River, as mysterious as it has always been.  

    “’Bye Mississippi!” 

    A chuckle comes from my left, it's Dad.  

    “Sweetie— You know you don’t always have to greet and wave ’bye to the river?”

    “Well, Dad, She might think I’m rude!  Plus she always waves back!”

    Silence consumes the car— except for the soft radio.  I reach over and use my scrawny piano fingers that are too big for the rest of my hand to turn the radio up.  My dad’s signature chuckles in the background.  

    The radio is silent for just a moment more as it transitions to a more ill—tempered and sorrowful tune.  I do not recognize this song in the slightest.  Bored as can be I just sit here, looking at the passing cars.  A strange but peaceful humming sound that matches the music comes about.  I am hoping that it is part of the song.   The lyrics start as the musician sings his old song that recounts the tragic and painful childhood he suffered.  A second—closer voice starts to sing.  I sit up and look over to Dad.  There he is, singing.  Smooth and deep, the voice of jazz, or even the blues, falls from his lips.  I watch as he sings, not always on pitch but he seems so emotional.  I have never seen Dad like this. The song that Dad is singing may be the same, but his sound isn’t ill—tempered or full of pain. Dad seems nostalgic when singing.  I can’t help but stare at Dad and he knows I am.  I know because he falters, chuckles and goes quiet.  

    “Dad!  Dad— you didn’t tell me you could sing!  That is so cool!  Awesome!  You could be a star!  Famous—Dad!  Famous.” 

    Another chuckle.  He always chuckles when I tell him about something cool.

    “Sweetie, thank you—But your dad here ain’t as good as you think.”

    “Whatever you say!  I think it was awesome!  This is the best song ever!  Sing again,  please!”  

    Dad does just that. It is not exactly the same as before.  He seems to think it's funny! It’s okay though--I still get to hear my dad sing until the depressing song finishes up.

“I can still hear Papa, what he said; Patches, I'm dependin' on you, son; To pull the family through; My son, it's all left up to you.”

The tune dissipates slowly after Dad finishes singing, his voice dying out perfectly with the lyrics, like his voice was always meant to be there.  I bring my long piano fingers over and turn the radio down.  My head leans against the passenger window. My hand is up against the glass.  Silence consumes the car again.

I completely forgot that was the first time I heard that song.  

I am back in my lovely Dakota that is finished pumping gas.  Silence fills my truck once again as the music buffers.  I lean forward and grab my phone.  

I still need to head to the store.

I pull forward and leave the lot to turn right onto the road.  My mind is stuck on that song.  It is weird just how much that one memory has affected me to this day.  I feel the warm embrace of nostalgia, from a song that was once my Dad’s sense of nostalgia and home.  It becomes hard to believe that one song is able to bring on such feelings, the calm bliss I feel while remembering a time where my Dad’s voice could soothe any worry, or make any song pleasant.  

I guess at this point it isn’t just a song anymore, it's a memory, a feeling of comfort that is accompanied by a song.  “Patches” can bring back the feeling of home that feels impossible to gain after his death.  The song brings him back from the dead, for even a moment.  It takes me back to a time where I was able to go for a ride with Dad.  Back to when I could hear him chuckle at every little stupid thing I did.  Back to when I could look right over my shoulder and see him.  Something that seems to have encapsulated itself into a distant memory that I can never recreate.  

-GlazedDinosaurs