Carl

More accurately known as “motor-mouth carl” was my “training manager” at my first job. 

I’m proud to say my first job was as a gas station attendant at Starmount Gulf Oil and Service on the corner of Archdale Drive and South Boulevard in Charlotte. 

Hubert Blanton the owner said he'd hire me if I got a haircut. So, I rode my bike across and down the street to a barbershop in the Starmount Shopping Center and went from hippy kid with hair nearly to my shoulders to grease monkey in about ten minutes. Even the barber asked "are you sure?" 

When I returned to the service station cut high and tight I got a “well damn, ok you can start now”. 

That summer I learned about perverts, racists, college girls, stealing from your employer, how to mount a set of tires and pretty much fell in love with cars of all makes and models. 

It wasn't a great job; the pay was not even minimum wage and I worked ten hours a day from 11 a.m. until the 9 p.m. closing. Six days a week. I had 2 15-minute breaks and 30 minutes for lunch. None of which I was paid for, even though I seldom took neither, and I had Sundays and Holidays off because we were closed Sundays and Holidays. 

My first experience with a handgun happened behind the station. Motor-mouth Carl the station's 6-3 uniformed attendant asked me if I could shoot a gun, pointing to the chrome 38 revolver under the cash register. 

We took the gun out back and he put a bottle on the fence, stepped back a dozen feet and put six holes in the fence, leaving the bottle standing. Laughing at his poor aim he took a bullet from his pocket and loaded it into the gun handed it to me. I took aim, then lowered the gun and took aim again, I took me nearly a minute to steady myself when I lightly squeezed the trigger and recycled the bottle into a hundred pieces. 

I don’t recall exactly what Carl's instructions were, but I'm sure it included the "N" word and some encouragement for not taking so long to aim. Maybe something along the lines of you don’t need to shoot the nigger exactly between the eyes just point it and shoot the SUM  BITCH but make sure you drag his body into the station before the cops come.

I suspect Hubert and Motor-mouth Carl, Shemp the mechanic, and Jim who cleaned the bathrooms are all gone now. But they live on in the echoes of gas station bells of long ago.

One afternoon with the Carolina sun high overhead and the humidity somewhere near crazy, Carl filled his Pepsi with Lance peanuts and gave his bottle a good hard shake with his thumb over the opening.

Then he folded the Charlotte News afternoon paper over his knee and slapped that back of the paper with his hand.

Says right hear it’s gonna be illegal to call a nigger a nigger how the hell is that possible?

I mean a nigger is a nigger but starting right now and here in the present we are supposed to call them folks Blacks? 

How on God’s Green Earth is that possible. I swear the world is going to hell!

It was soon thereafter a “nigger” and his car limped into the service station parking lot with a flat tire. He didn’t pull up to the pumps, rather he just pulled into the station lot at the far end.

The Pontiac was clean and shiny with wide white wall tires, the left front tire however was ripped to shreds. 

The black man about 40 exited the car was surveying the damage as Carl risking possible heat stroke walked across the hot pavement over to the man and firmly says “How can I help you?”

The Black man looked around and replies “I was hoping to put in enough air in to get home”.

Carl looked the South Carolina tag and then at the tire. He then give the tire a couple of pokes with his foot. “That tire ain’t gonna even hold a prayer on Sunday, you got a spare?”

Nope the man shakes his head with a combination of embarrassment and acknowledgement.

Carl mutters to himself “what kind of fool drives to Charlotte without a spare?”

The man and the ladies in the car were dressed for church but it is Thursday, now this concerns Carl. He mutters something about being all dressed up like it was Sunday seems suspicious.

Carl tells the man I can sell you a tire, but I can’t fix that one.

The man explained he only had 15 dollars. Carl tells him that ain’t even enough for a down payment. Plus, we don’t carry those fancy pimp tires.

“Can I use the payphone?” the man politely asks

Now this also presents a problem. The payphone is basically a public phone supplied by BellSouth, but it’s also the gas station business telephone. The owner is tight as dick’s hat band and figured one phone was enough. So, to use the payphone you had to go behind the counter and Carl was having nothing of that since that’s where the gun is in plain sight once you’re behind the counter.

“Sorry the phone’s broke hasn’t worked in weeks.” Says Carl. The man nods. But I know the man understands what is really being said, and that is that the phone is for white folk only.

Carl sends me back behind the station telling me bring out a fifteen-inch tire, “get a bias ply not a damn radial” Then he adds “but make sure it will hold air and has some tread on it”.

I do as I’m told and hunt through the stacks of discarded tires waiting for pick up behind the station. Most are well worn, toe and camber issues I’ve learned, and grab the best that I can find. 

Carl has already dragged a floor jack some chocks out of the garage bay and is telling the ladies they might want to wait next door at the Burger King they have a/c he points out. Again the air-conditioned gas station office is off limits.

We pull the wheel and within a minute it’s on the tire machine. Carl lets me do the work. 

"You know what Pontiac stands for?" askes Carl.

"No sir" knowing full well that I'm about to find out.

"Poor Old Nigger Thinks Its A Cadillac" laughs Carl.

The old tire is removed and the new one inspected by Carl he’s of the opinion that it’s too nice of a tire but given the heat of the summer day, he doesn’t want to go around back and have a look for himself.

“Dang son, what you couldn’t find a new one?” He jokes. 

The used tire is back on the rim, filled with air and Carl runs a soapy rag across the tire, seeing that there are no leaks, he gives in a hard bounce on the garage floor and it starts roll towards the street. He motions for me to follow along and make sure it rolls toward the Pontiac and not into traffic or to the Kmart across the street.

Not long after wheel is back on the car with five quick bursts of the air wrench.

Carl drops the car as if he’s at Dayton and swings the floor jack into an empty bay.

The man opens his wallet, but carl waives him off tells the man no charge.

The man is overwhelmed and very apperceive as the ladies return and without another word the Pontic is gone.

A few minutes later in the comfort of the air-conditioned office I look at Carl and ask: "Why did you did do that?"

Carl says what? I press him further: “Help that man out? Carl looks at me says "oh you think I’m soft? A push over? Shit son, I don’t put up with no niggers in my gas station. I did what I needed to do to get him off the property and on his way."

I smile at Carl and tell him, “I suspect you did it because beyond being a redneck you also have a big heart."

Carl now swearing like a sailor tells me to go to hell and if I tell anyone he’ll cut tongue off. I’ll not say a word I promise. 

The air conditioner mounted over the gas station door hums and cold air blows nonstop which keeps the small room “Kool Inside” and the Carolina heat and humidity outside. Carl now sitting in Hubert Blanton’s desk chair leans back puts his feet up on the desk then mutters something about not being soft or a push over and takes a swig of his Pepsi and Lance Peanuts.

Another customer runs over the gas station airbell hose.

Now all these years later I’m still smiling at Carl.