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.