For an hour, I wait around the side of the cinder-block service station so the attendant will not see me and try to talk. About twelve-thirty, the tow truck pulls in. It is a shimmering black Ford, its platform so huge an SUV could ride on it. It has wide chrome bumpers. It has a grille along which sparks of sun slide as it humps the curb and maneuvers to back before my car. It is as polished as a fire truck, and the newness of the vehicle so startles me that I hesitate, not certain it is for me. By the time I run up, the driver has been honking at the attendant with the long greasy hair.

The man struts up to the truck, a soiled cloth hanging out of his back pocket and swinging like a horsetail, shading his eyes as he peers up.

They start a conversation so I slow to a walk, then stop several feet away. Maybe I should interrupt and tell the man it is my car, but I do not want to be rude. The platform-truck driver gets out, still talking, and steps down from the chrome footrail and lands on the asphalt. Though he makes the landing easily enough, his flannel shirt—torn to be short-sleeved—does nothing to hide his beer belly, and the red bandanna wrapped around his forehead matches the pockmarks on his cheeks. His crusty jeans are so threadbare they shine as they rub upon his thighs. His arms appear hard and I can make out the shape of his muscles as they move beneath his freckled skin, and the biker tattoos along his arms. The men seem to know each other and talk about common acquaintances.

Soon it becomes obvious the tow truck guy is waiting around for whoever owns Tomas’s car. For some reason the attendant does not tell him it’s me. They exchange words about the vintage-car races up in Oregon, and the fleet of old colorful cars that drove in yesterday afternoon and took over the town, filling up the motels and bars. It seems awkward for me to say anything at this point, and I feel weird just watching this conversation. Several times the truck driver glances my way, probably wondering why I am listening. Finally, possibly because of me, he announces that he is going to give up on the owner and leave, and begins to turn towards his truck.

He has turned before I can signal to him, and the gas attendant looks curiously at me but does not say a word. I call to the tow truck driver.

He stops with a boot on the footrail and asks me who I am. I tell him I own the car.

Why the hell didn’t you say something? he says with a smile. I nearly left.

Sorry.

You’re the one who would’ve been without a tow. Don’t be sorry to me.