The Arco off Figueroa always smelled

like scorched rubber and too-sweet coffee.

Midnights there were slow parades

of busted Pontiacs and primer-gray Hondas,

some with plates, some without.

I was fifteen when I started filling tanks,

wiping dead moths off the windows,

watching the Chevron across the street

blink its blue fire into the broken sidewalks.

On slow nights, I bought Cherry Coke

and Hostess pies from the cooler,

sat on the curb by the air pump,

listening to the low hum of the ice machine

pretending it was a river.

Everyone said to stay inside after eleven,

but no one meant it.

Not when rent was due,

not when Mom’s Chrysler had two bald tires,

not when the last bus rolled past empty

at 10:17 exactly,

headed downtown, headed anywhere but here.

Sometimes a guy would pull up in a ‘92 Cutlass,

windows down, bass rattling the change in my pockets.

He’d hand me a five and say,

“Don’t look inside,”

and I wouldn’t.

We all learned young

how not to see things.

How to make small-talk about the Dodgers,

about gas prices,

about anything but the boy from Tenth Street

who didn’t come home after the cops stopped him

outside the liquor store.

Even now, when the smell of unleaded

gets trapped in my throat,

I can still hear it—

the cheap buzz of the Chevron lights,

breaking open the dark

in uneven, endless flickers.