It was the ninth of January, two thousand and four. I was driving back from the midwest to Oregon. I had a good friend, lots of music, and two bushels of fruit in the back seat, so the main problem (aside from the sheer number of places we had to pass through which I didn't want to be in) was the frequent pauses to feed the vehicle.
These stops were excuses to stretch, anyway, and frequently to find amusement in the scenery. I wished many times during the trip for a camera (I had foolishly left it behind), but none so much as when we pulled up to pump number three at Outlaw Sinclair, in Rock Springs, Wyoming. Affixed to the pump with that laminate for the masses called "box tape" was a sheet of white office paper bearing the following urbanely worded message:
I copied it down letter for letter, counting the exclamation points. Ryland can attest to the accuracy of this reconstruction. I don't know who the manager at Outlaw Sinclair is, but I'd like to hire them for my upcoming full-site redesign. I need a bolder, more sophisticated look.