The gas jockey climbed out of
his steed, a 1965 Mustang, to

go to work pumping the gas.
“Fill ‘er up, kid,” said the cus-

tomer.  The gas jockey stood
inhaling the fresh scent of raw

gas thinking to himself how
fragrant such a fresh scent is.

He opened a can of trans-
mission fluid, breathed deep-

ly and thought about how lucky
he was to be a gas jockey riding

around in America’s garden of
greasy delight. The owner came

out to finish the transaction,
“That will be two dollars and fifty

cents, please,” as the gas jockey
climbed back into his steed and

rode around the track in the garden
before heading into the sunset

for the dorm.