The Yugoslavian

There are no pawn shops in Colorado City. That thought gives me, looking back, some solace to the rapid, albeit entertaining, events that begin there after I pulled into a gas station.

Last minute, I was traveling to Denver for a friend’s funeral and since my partner didn’t really know my friend, here I was on the road by myself, listening to music at road trip volume. At Colorado City I decided to stop for gas at the Diamond Shamrock because it was an easy exit off and on to I-25. It was a Thursday, the day before payday. That thought also gives me, looking back, some solace on the events that unfolded at the Diamond Shamrock in Colorado City.

I didn’t see what direction he came from, but as I was taking the gas pump nozzle out of my tank a white Chevy Suburban pulled up behind me.

A man, mid 40’s, bald leaned out the window and said, “Do you speak Spanish?” gesturing towards my New Mexico plates.

Thinking maybe he did speak Spanish, I said, “Pequito.”

With that he stepped out of the car. Walking towards me he said, “I’m Yugoslavian.”

I nodded and put the nozzle back into the pump.

“We are on the way to Chicago, and my card was denied.”

I said, “Pull around I’ll put some gas in your car.”