Sunday, while taking John to his group home in Texarkana, Priscilla turned into a truck stop southwest of Malvern. Ahead of us a big pickup with a travel trailer goosenecked also turned in. Priscilla drove across the lot and then into an empty pump area. We both looked up and saw the pickup and trailer headed for the same pump, but about 40 feet away. Priscilla said, “I’m sorry, mister.” I said, “Don’t be. We’ll be filed and gone long before he would be.” I got out and pumped in 16 gallons and then got back in the car. I happened to look left. The pickup driver was standing at another pump. He mouthed, “F--- y---.” I kind of grinned, which did not help his anger. He gave me the finger and mouthed, “F--- y---, m-----------.” I told Priscilla. She said, “Don’t say anything to him.” I assured her I intended not to.
That much anger because of being slower to get to a pump, and it wasn’t like Priscilla zoomed across the lot just to beat the man to a gas pump. After we turned in, we didn’t even see the truck until we were entering the pump areas. The driver had taken a longer route to the pump, because he was pulling a big trailer.
I don’t know. Maybe he’s always angry. Maybe he was so focused on driving and turning he just got red when he saw he would have to make another plan. Maybe his wife had been directing him, and when we got to the pump, her directions became, “Well, congratulations. You let that other car get in first.” Lots of possibilities.