Page 68 - WTP Vol. X #7

We closed up early on the last day of Black Bart’s. I sent Marcia home at 9; I told her I could close up on my own. I wanted to, so I could get a little sentimental about it.
“I’d say I’ll miss the old place,” she said, “but I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” She had her big bag that she kept all sorts of stuff in, and her big coat on.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s the end of an era.”
“It’ll be exactly the same,” she said, dismissing with a wave of her hand. “Still have to come to work.” She trailed off as she headed out the door. We’d been working together too long to bother saying goodbye at the end of the day.
The crew was out replacing the sign with the new one that said “GasCo” in big white letters over a red background. The old one was leaning up against the garage, a white sign with the silhouette of a Cow- boy—we hadn’t changed it since ten years before when they airbrushed the cigarette out of his hand. He’d been watching over Second Avenue for three decades; now he was headed for the scrap heap.
Soon as Marcia left, Paul from GasCo called.
“Hey Glenn,” he said, as friendly as always. How’d it go today?”
“Fine,” I said.
“We all set for tomorrow?” “Yeah.”
“Good,” he said. “I’m still in Aurora, so I’ll probably get there around three.”
He was coming for a few days to help with the transition. I’d only met him once, after they first bought the station. After that, we’d just talked on the phone, which was fine by me.
“You all set with the new timecards?”
“Yeah,” I said. “They’ll have to get used to it—they never really had to do this before. We only have one or two people here at a time; it’s pretty easy to tell if somebody doesn’t show up.”
“Well...” he said. “We use online timecards for everyone, and then you can log in and approve them every week.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.” I looked outside—they were finishing up with the sign. Dale Janus waved at me; I didn’t really know him, but our kids played football together. He and the other guy who worked for him loaded the old sign in the back of their truck and drove off. He’d probably changed a lot of signs in small towns near here the past few years.
“You hand out the shirts?” asked Paul. I’d almost for- gotten he was on the phone. I pulled out the box— seven red polo shirts with GasCo logos, each one with a different name on the left breast.
“Yeah,” I said. “I was gonna ask you about that. There’s only one per person.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, that means they have to wear the same shirt every day.”
“The company only provides one. They can buy another one for ten dollars.”
“Does that go for me, too?”
“What?”
I repeated: “Does that go for me as well.”
“Yeah... you can buy another one, if you want. Of course.”
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GasCo
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