There’s a gas station not far from my house.

It sits along a busy stretch of road on which people are always speeding, tailgating, driving aggressively in that way that people in the northeast do.

Since I moved to my current home, this lone gas station along this busy stretch of road in this quiet neighborhood has been the only gas station I’ve frequented. And, as it happens with these things, I have come to recognize the guy who pumps the gas.

It is always the same guy, never anyone different, a brown dude — maybe Indian, maybe something else — and I can’t say he recognizes me as I do him, but maybe…