I was on my way to visit my sister at her university when the red "Check Fuel" light came on accompanied by an underwhelming "ting." I looked at my fuel gauge to see the indicator pin tickling the bottom of a capital "E." It seemed as though I would imminently run out of gas.
My Garmin, bastard that it is, had decided that it would be best to avoid main highways, preferring to follow only minor, single-lane roads. This is how I found myself in the middle of a rural county in which every house's front lawn was decorated by plastic child toys and sharp tools. I swore that I could hear the dim warning of banjo music in the distance, but I needed to stop and get gas as soon as possible.
A rickety shanty with a solitary pump came into view. The word "Exxon" was scribbled messily on two large pieces of poster board which were hung in a window. The "E" was backwards.
Against my every instinct, I pulled into the station.
The tires of my car ground through the gravel up to the pump. I stepped out and walked around to the pump to find another handwritten sign. This one requested that I pay inside before pumping. I am, of course, paraphrasing and correcting spelling for the sake of the reader.
The cowbell tied to the door jangled as I entered the shanty that served as the main house of the gas station.
The toothless woman behind the counter looked up from an issue of "Guns and Liquor Quarterly" and silently met my gaze. Her eyes did not reflect the harsh light of the single halogen bulb which hung like a boxing announcer's microphone from the ceiling. In fact, they seemed completely devoid of feeling or understanding.
I shuffled hesitantly up to the counter. The words "What do you want?" slipped wetly past her gums.
I tried to hide a cringe. I did not succeed.
"..Uh, the sign outside said that I would have to pay inside before I pumped anything."
She said nothing. She didn't even move.
"So...I guess I'll take twenty dollars' worth." I said reaching into my back pocket for my wallet.
I pulled out a bill and began to hold it out to the woman when something behind the counter caught my eye.
Hanging above the back wall, which was nearly covered with tobacco products, was a dreamcatcher which bore the design of a Confederate Flag.
I stood, mouth agape, the twenty dollar bill wilting out of my hand in the direction of the woman.
"Are you getting gas or not?" The woman drooled.
I absently handed it to her. My eyes had not left the dreamcatcher.
I was trying to understand the significance of this object.
What were dreamcatchers supposed to do again? I had made a dreamcatcher at a camp when I was a child and I could vaguely remember the camp counselors telling us that dreamcatchers were supposed to keep you from getting nightmares. But what nightmares were so specific that they would require a Confederate Flag?
Were there people waking up in a cold sweat after having a nightmare that a well dressed black man was making a hefty withdrawal from an ATM?
Instead of a boogieman under their bed, did some people have a gay dude quietly sipping a frappuccino and knitting mittens for their boyfriend? Or perhaps, instead of under their bed, he's in their closet?
For these people, was a chase by a phantom apparition instead replaced by a conversation with a confident and slightly condescending woman in a pantsuit?
These people were fine with typical nightmare creatures but were terrified to the point of superstition by the idea that minorities aren't subjugated and discriminated against in all parts of the country?
Was this the over-the-counter solution for open-mindedness in the south?
"Liberal ideas are leaking into my head parts through my sleep dreams! What should I do, Doc?"
"Ah, still having those dude-kissing nightmares, Frank? Here. Take this dreamcatcher- See it's got a Confederate Flag right on it! That should clear this whole mess up."
"Thanks doc, you're a life saver!"
My mind was nearly crippled with a sudden deluge of these types of thoughts. The sound of the woman slurping spit back from the brink of her lips finally snapped me back to reality.
"You can get your gas now." She said into her magazine.
I backed slowly out of the shanty, my mouth open and my eyes drawn into slits. The cowbell jangled again as I slunk through the door.
I pumped my gas as fast as I could.
I jumped into my car.
I punched my Garmin right in the face.
And I pulled away.
--
I have a hunch that it's still a form of bigotry to hate bigots, but it's a hypocrisy that I can live with.
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