I bought a half gallon of milk at the gas station 3 miles away--a BP station I'm sorry to say. So I pour some milk over my last bit of Cinnamon Chex cereal, and it was sour. Ugh..I took the milk back, and the station was almost empty--in, got fresh milk, came out, and the station was swamped. Cars at every pump, and people parked in front of me, in back of me, and I couldn't get out. Part of the log jam was caused by there being only one attendant inside.

Down at the end pump there was a young fella pumping gas in his SUV and talking on the phone. He fills it up and stands there, talking and talking. He finally passes by my car window and I say to him, if you're through getting gas, why don't you pull out of the way? I want to get out. He said okay and went inside. I'm sitting there twiddling my thumbs as the milk container sweats and warms up.

In one of the cars in this log jam there has been a baby crying non stop. Its cry is one of pain, of distress, of urgency. I don't know how it cried without seeming to take a breath. I had a baby with colic, so that cry was familiar to me. I had the strongest impulse to go find that baby and ask the parent if I could hold it and pet it and try to ease its pain. The news on the car radio was telling of the oil spill--the baby cried. The news said there was an explosion of armed robberies in the Delta--the baby cried, seemingly in commiseration. All bad news. The baby cried and cried. I had an eerie feeling this baby knew what kind of world it had been born into and didn't like it.

It was a dirty place to be, stuck there in front of that BP station. The bins in back were overflowing with garbage, the concrete was dirty and trashy, and two garbage cans placed on either side of the door stank, foul and rotten. The SUV owner came out carrying a 12 pack of beer and finally unblocked the exit. I was ever so glad to be gone from there, but circled around looking for the crying baby; but all the vehicles were leaving and I never found it.

susil