The 7-Elevens, Go-Marts, Little Generals, and Quik-Stops that dot our highways and byways always seem familiar to me. They have the same layout, the same snacks, the same bathroom that’s run out of soap…if you’ve been in one dusty, nearly-forgotten pit stop, you have the sense you’ve been in them all, all causing the same amount of relief and apprehension. I’ve never met a gas station that didn’t simultaneously comfort and frighten me. Getting off the busy highway and stretching my wobbly legs to walk into the florescent-lit block building filled with rows of bright and garish packaged snacks fills me with a sense of wariness, and somehow, relief. I’m happy to be off the road and able to buy all the snacks I would need, but I’m always aware of my surroundings, ready to separate myself from those around me.

It seems that every time I’m in a gas station, however, someone comes to talk to me. I try to listen to my dad’s advice and keep a dark, gruff look on my face so people will think I don’t have time for such foolishness, but I guess it never really works. Someone is bound to ask me for directions, confuse me with someone they know, or speak to me just for the sake of speaking to a stranger at a gas station. Nine times out of ten these encounters are simply odd—never too upsetting and never too enjoyable. Just odd enough for me to remember it and question the encounter for the rest of my drive. I always leave thinking, How should I feel about this?

While driving back to WVWC from Lexington, KY last weekend, I was reminded of this strange dual feeling when I stopped to use the restroom at a dim and broken down 7-Eleven in Clendenin, WV. I had been driving for hours; three-fourths of the drive being in the black dark. I couldn’t hold back the pangs of my bladder any more so I got off at the Clendenin exit, my GPS pointing me to the nearest gas station. I slowly rolled down the ramp to find the only mark of civilization was a grey two lane road completely void of streetlamps, without any signs of business or human life. Everything was dark, even the sky had no stars. I wanted to get back on the highway and continue driving, but I needed a restroom and it was too late to turn back now. I continued down the two lane road, hoping my GPS wasn’t out of date and leading me to a vacant lot in the middle of some dark and windy holler. I continued on for quite a while, leaning forward so I could see the yellow and white lines of the road through the pitch black. Then on my right I saw the dimly lit 7-Eleven—its cracked asphalt parking lot, its 30-year-old gas pumps, and the motley array of grey cars and grey people, held together by duct tape and tobacco. I noticed a good amount of people were milling around in the parking lot, more than I would have expected to see at a gas station on an empty road at night. I turned my head to see a lady sitting on the passenger side of a maroon Neon, the door hanging wide open, with a shaking Chihuahua by her feet. I pulled in, suddenly too aware of my bright white Mustang and the workers out front staring at me. I sat in my car for a while, watching and waiting, flashes of horror movies and Amber Alerts flying through my head. Its 8:30 at night, I’m driving all by myself, and now I’m at a little, run-down gas station in a town I’ve never been before and all I have is a cell phone and a full bladder. What if something terrible happened to me? I blocked the thought. What am I so scared of? I thought to myself. This little town is no different than any other West Virginian town I’ve lived in and loved wholeheartedly. I’m part of this state and these people. I’m no different than the man with only two teeth, smoking right in front of my hood.

I turned off my music, cutting off CCR just as John Fogerty started to sing about that old green river. I got out of my car, keys and phone in hand, and locked the door behind me. I heard the two toothed man mumble something as I passed in front of him, trying to reach the door and the relative safety of the florescent lights. I dismissed his mumble, thinking it wasn’t meant for me. “You’re still not smiling,” the man said as I put my hand on the door handle. He leaned towards me with his cigarette hanging from his fingers. “Oh, what? I’m sorry I didn’t hear what you said,” I said with a small smile. “I told you to smile and you’re still not smiling,” said the man grinning at me. I gave a short laugh and nodded. I had no idea what else I could say to that. I opened the door and went into the building. There was a large white sign at the end of an abnormally long and open hallway hanging by a chain from the ceiling with the word ‘RESTROOMS’ printed in big, red, capital letters. I went into the one toilet restroom and tried closing the broken door behind me. There was no soap in the dispenser, but I expected that.

Afterwards, I walked back down the long hallway and tried to look as if I had very important places to be. I thought about walking through the aisles and getting a snack and drink—hiding among the Lays and Sweet Tarts for a minute so I could regain my bearings, but I decided against it when I saw how black it was outside. I needed to get home. Walking out, I thought I had completed my strange journey…until I heard a mumble from behind me. I kept walking. I really hoped that mumble was not meant for me. Not again. As I turned to get into my car I saw the toothless, smoking man wave and usher the same mumble again. Seeing his lips, I could make out what he was saying: “Have a good night! Drive safe!” “Oh, thank you! You do the same!” I said back quickly with a wave and a smile—one last hoorah before I could leave the Clendenin 7-Eleven for the night.

Back in my Mustang, I contemplated the encounter and my feelings. I felt on edge and out of my element the entire time I was there. What about those fifteen minutes was so nerve-racking? I thought to myself as I drove down the dark two lane to get back on the highway. And, honestly, there was nothing about it that should have put me on edge as it did. The man was kind, albeit a little off-putting. He was on his smoke break and decided to attempt to make a traveler feel welcome. He even wished me a good night and safety on my travels. My nerves were totally unnecessary.

So often we are told to always have our guard up, to always imagine the worst and prepare. I followed this line of thinking and as I drove away from the Clendenin 7-Eleven, I felt as if I had done that man and that place wrong. I felt ashamed for not interacting wholeheartedly. I felt bad for thinking Oh this is so scary, instead of Oh I’m so glad I stopped here. I allowed my fears and apprehensions to block myself from seeing all the ways in which that gas station was just as funny, comforting, and strange as all the others. I should have felt relief from the long, black drive I was on while being in the gas station. I should’ve seen the similarities I share with that man and the lady with the Chihuahua and the scummy bathroom. I just have to be willing to see it; to see humility in myself and kindness in others. I’m no different than those people and places. I’m no different than the strange gas stations on two lane roads in the middle of nowhere. I’m just as funny, comforting, frightful, and full of character as any of them.