Toad went to the CD player and put in Abbey Road, forwarding the track to "Here Comes the Sun." He adjusted the volume carefully and lowered his head in what appeared to be a private prayer, "We have to set the right atmosphere."

I wasn't about to argue. If the good karma of the Beatles would help in any way, I was all for it.

Toad dropped a quarter into the pay-phone and dialed a number, "Yeah, this is Toad. I was calling about the Probe head."

I couldn't see the reaction on his face, but the few seconds of utter silence were maddening.

"Uh-hu."

That sounded like it had potential.

"Yeah."

"Yeah" was a positive word.

"Oh. Thank God!"

I thanked John, George, Paul and Ringo. I may have even broken my own rule against dancing and done a small jig.

Toad hung up the phone, "The head was warped, they were able to resurface it. It looks like it's going to be okay!"

"Oh my God!"

I forget the exact cost now, not that it mattered anyway. I went over and grabbed a credit card slip and made a charge for the full amount, "This is going to hurt Lee a hell of a lot more than it's going to hurt me."

I signed my name to the slip and counted out the cash, giving it to Toad. He took it with him to the shop to pick up the repaired head.

Poopie wasn't as elated as I was. It had been three days and his personal ad hadn't yet netted him any responses. Everything always seemed to be a ritual with Poopie - from his bathroom habits, to our daily pizza dinner, to me calling to check his personal ad mailbox for him.

"Come on Darren. There's going to be a reply today. Call it up!"

I was happy to dial the number. I knew what the response would be and it gave me a perverse joy to report the results to Poopie. I altered the default message on the machine into one that seemed more appropriate to me. I punched in Poopie's access code and waited for the computerized voice. I hung up the phone grinning.

"You are a. Big. ZERO."

"Goddamnit! I hate that damn machine, Darren!"

I wondered if he really thought those were the exact words the machine was using. I admit, it was more fun that it probably should have been. But that damn machine didn't know just how many ways it had it right. Poopie was, in fact, a Big Zero.

Poopie rubbed his stomach and recited the line he stole from "Happy Days" whenever "Al" would test a new dish on someone, "Not so good, Al."

"What the fuck is wrong with your damn guts anyway? I have never seen someone so obsessed with their own shit!"

"I don't know, man. I keep going to the doctor and they always tell me something different. I told you I'm lactose intolerant."

"Whatever. Have you had this problem your whole life or what?"

"Not really. It started when I burned my house down."

"What?!"

"I burned my parents' garage down."

"Jesus Christ. How the fuck did that happen?"

"I was huffing gas and lit a cigarette. They sent me to a rehab for a while. I think it's when I started huffing gas that my stomach got all fucked up."

"So you get a job at a gas station. Good call."

"I've always wanted to work here, man. You guys were my heroes. Ever since I started coming here on my bicycle to buy cigarettes, I've always wanted to be one of you Phillips guys."

"That's probably the most pathetic thing I've ever heard in my life."

"I'm going to go check the plumbing in the women's restroom. The Kaopectate isn't doing the job."

"Knock yourself out, dude."

Toad returned with the repaired head before Poopie ever made it out of the bathroom and we set about replacing it into the Probe without a single customer showing up. Business was plummeting. Lee was spending more on employee charges than he was making in a week, thanks mostly to Toad's pixie habit. As much as I hated everything pixie, I didn't mind using Toad's newfound energy to help get the Probe running.

It took us a couple of hours to get the head gasket in place, all the head bolts tightened down properly and all the hoses and wires restored. The moment of truth had arrived. We didn't have a CD player outside, so there were no Beatles songs to lend us karmic aid.

Nervously, I got in the Probe, put the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine cranked over and started. My initial surprise and elation was immediately washed away like the contents of the women's toilet after being flushed by Poopie's cold, clammy hand. The horrible, sickly wheezing sound returned.

Toad stood over the engine, his head lowered and shaking from side to side, "The block is cracked man. This car's fucked."

"Oh, dude."

"Do you need a ride home tonight?"

"Nah. I can get a ride from Tracy. I don't know how I'm getting to work tomorrow though."

"Well, you can use the Woody until you find another car."

The Woody was a small wood-paneled hatchback Toad kept as a spare car.

"That's cool man, I appreciate it."

"We should probably get the Probe to my place. Lee's a bit twitchy about having cars broken down in the parking lot since the deal with Dustin's van."

"Yeah."

I was heartbroken. I had failed Tracy. I felt like I had just killed her mother all over again.

Toad left, telling me he would return with his wife to drop off the Woody. I went inside and sat at the desk to stare morosely out the window.

One of our few remaining regulars came in. She was an attractive blonde, in her mid to late thirties. She was always talkative and always tipped well, even for the most routine service. She made the unfortunate mistake of pulling in on Poopie's island. Normally, I would have gotten her anyway to spare her the horror of Poopie's special brand of service, but I was too depressed to even move.

Poopie stood up, the chain connecting his wallet to his jeans rattling against the desk, "Oh fuck!"

He stomped outside and started the woman's gas, leaning against her car with his hand squeezing the pump so the gas flowed at full speed. It splashed back all over him when it shut off. Poopie replaced the gas cap and tromped around to collect the woman's credit card, cursing the entire way.

Poopie was less than happy as he carried the card back inside to process it, "Fucking bitch!"

"Dude, shut the fuck up. They can hear you all the way down at Amoco."

"Fuck that bitch!"

I heard the car door open and my face reddened. I dropped my head to the desk as the woman walked inside, "I've been coming to this gas station for years and never had a problem with anyone here! I'm not a bitch, you're a fucking asshole and I'm never coming back here again!"

Poopie remained silent and embarrassed as he ran her credit card and gave her the slip to sign. She tore off the carbon and threw it at his face, "Fucking asshole!" Then she stomped out of the station, never to return. I could probably count the number of customers we had on one hand by now.

"Great going, Poopie. She's always been cool. She always tipped too."

"Fuck her!"

"Actually, I think she just fucked you, buddy."

Posted by DevilMonkey at 6:01 PM

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