What about the place across the street? You know if they’ll open up today?

They won’t.

You sure about that?

The same guy who fixes everything here owns that place too, he says.

You mean it’s the same guy?

He’s my boss.

The station across the street is a Chevron, unlike this one, and looks newer, but I do not have any reason to doubt this man. I do not think he would lie mostly to get my business. The way he watches me curiously, he does not exactly seem impatient to get back to his desk.

So you mean no place is open here on weekends, not even Saturday?

That’s right, he says.

Look, I say. You think if I pay him he’ll come out?

Ha! Not on your life.

I tap my foot restlessly. But you might know where he is, where I might call him.

He’s out hunting, but if I gave you his number he’d kill me, the man says, with his amused-looking smile. He asks where I’m from and I tell him Los Angeles. That seems to amuse him more and he starts asking questions and I answer as few as possible and then ask him what he thinks I should do. He tells me that because it is the Fourth of July weekend I will have to wait until Tuesday and even then they might have to order a part.

You telling me I can’t do anything?

You can go down the street and yell at those guys who gave you gas.

Do they know how to fix a car?

No.

I ask him if I can leave the car in his lot and he says yes and I walk five blocks to the only pay phone in town. The air is dry and parched and dusty and by the time I get there filmy dust covers my tongue. There are only three men who tow in the region and one of them tells me he could put a hundred miles on my brother’s AAA card and charge me for the rest. He recommends towing across the state border to Medford, Oregon. But he cannot make it before one o’clock.