Overheard at the BP

Today, driving through a small town on the way to work, I stopped at the BP to pick up a DP. I walked by a table of older, maybe retired gentlemen or farmers who never really retire. They all smiled and I smiled back. I got my bottle of pop and went up toward the checkout. Around the counter there were at least six men of various ages holding items they either had purchased or were going to purchase. I had a hard time figuring out if this was a line or a huddle. Alongside another gentlemen behind the counter the cashier rested his elbow on the cash register and everyone was focusing intently on the story being read from the local paper. It was about a marine named Aaron and his acts of heroism that had made the morning headlines.

I stopped short of the counter to determine if walking straight up to the cash register would be cutting in line. I listened to the rest of the story. The cashier looked up at me and I just lifted my bottle and he began punching some digits into his old fashion register. 85 cents. Cool, down the street at the new chain they were charging me $1.39. The BP facelift on the outside of this gas station, where they still fill up your tank and clean your windows for you, hadn't changed the small town feel inside.

"That's our Aaron" a man behind me insisted, "He was such a good boy."

"Now what was his buddy's name. He is over there too. Oh now that kid, he was such a trouble-maker."

"Oh yea.." They all chuckled as someone hollered out his name. "But now he is a marine. I'll bet he is kicking some butt."

I collected my change and stepped back from the counter. Another man approached and laid down a dollar bill for his coffee. "Way to go Aaron!" He chanted. "That's our boy."