The Real Bonanza
Texas Highway 1.
Heat shimmered above the asphalt.
All around us stretched a red-brown wasteland, with nothing to break the horizon but tumbleweeds rolling along in the wind. In the middle of that landscape, which looked like something straight out of the frontier days of the American West, a new price board had been hung beneath Morgan Oil’s rusted sign.
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REGULAR $1.09
PLUS $1.19
DIESEL $1.15
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Regular meant the cheapest unleaded gasoline, with an octane rating of 87. Plus was the premium grade, with an octane rating of 89.
Diesel was diesel fuel, and of course all of it was priced per gallon.
Across the road, Texaco’s diesel stood at $1.20.
It was only a five-cent difference, but for truckers buying hundreds of gallons at a time, it was a number that mattered.
Still, that was only the bait price. The real deal for truckers would be even more outrageous.
“Hey, kid.”
From behind the curtain by the office window, Grandpa Morgan kept wiping his dry face over and over.
He’d called me kid when I was little, and he still called me kid now.
He looked uneasy, and kept asking me the same question again and again.
“Are people really going to come? Do we really need to put the price that low? This shabby little place—wouldn’t it be better to just print the price a little lower on the sign instead?”
“No, no. If you’re going to trick people, you have to do it properly. And truckers are the kind of people who notice every cent on a per-gallon price. There’s no way they won’t come.”
I looked out the window.
Nothing was visible beyond the heat haze. Not yet.
Then it happened.
A dot rose up on the edge of the horizon.
Rrrrumble—
A deep engine note rolled toward us.
A giant eighteen-wheeler Peterbilt, its massive chrome grille leading the way, came tearing in through a storm of dust and dirt.
Peterbilt was practically synonymous with American heavy trucks.
A truck that size would take hundreds of gallons in a single fill-up.
Shhhk—thunk!
With the hiss of air brakes, the giant rig came to a stop right in front of the pumps.
The driver’s door opened with the stench of scorched rubber in the air.
A huge Black man leaped down from the cab, his arms thicker than my thighs, his body built like a wall. His curly hair fell to his waist, and he had an almost absurdly broad frame.
He strode up to the pump, flicked a glance at the price board, and nodded.
“Hey, little man. Three hundred gallons. Fill ‘er up.”
Then he took a credit card out of his wallet and tossed it my way.
Tap!
The card bounced off the concrete at my feet.
Without another word, the man turned back toward the truck.
It was a rude gesture, but I wasn’t offended in the slightest.
Because there was no reason to get angry.
“······?”
When I didn’t reach for the card on the ground, the Black man looked back at me.
“What, you deaf?”
“······.”
“Pffft! Can’t understand English, ching-chong? I said fill it up—DIESEL! D-I-E-S-E-L!”
He was getting irritated now, waving his hands for emphasis.
I spoke slowly.
“The price on the sign, $1.15 per gallon, is the card price. If you pay cash, it’s 89 cents a gallon. You still want to use a card?”
“······What?”
The man’s expression changed in an instant.
“Kid, what did you just say?”
“I asked if you really wanted to use a card.”
“No, before that!”
“If you pay cash, diesel is 89 cents a gallon.”
At 89 cents, it was less than thirty percent of the current market rate.
The man’s eyes slowly widened until I couldn’t help wondering how a person’s eyes could even open that far.
“89 cents? You ain’t playing games with me, are you? You sure you can count?”
“That’s right—89 cents a gallon. If you don’t like it, you can just pay the $1.15 per gallon on the sign.”
I bent down, intending to pick up the credit card from the ground.
At once, the man rushed over.
“Stop! Stop! Hold up a second! Why you in such a hurry, man?”
He hurriedly traced numbers in the air with his finger.
“Three hundred gallons at 89 cents a gallon means... how much am I saving here? Over a hundred bucks, right?”
“Compared with Texaco, you’d save $93. There, it would be $360. Here, it’s $267.”
“Damn, you’re exact! You’re good at math? That’s Asian for you.”
The man’s pupils trembled violently.
In a much smaller voice, he asked cautiously, “Hey... you’re not messing with me, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then it’s real? This isn’t some stale April Fool’s joke?”
“If you want, I can start right now. But I can’t give you a receipt.”
He hesitated for a moment, then fished a crumpled wad of bills out of his pocket.
“······F-fine. Fill it up.”
“Yes, sir. Want me to pick up your card?”
“Oh, no. That was my mistake. The card slipped out of my hand. I’ve got sweaty palms, see? I’ll get it. Why don’t you go ahead and pump the gas while I do that?”
The huge Black man bent down, retrieved his own card from the pavement with his own hands, and tucked it into his pocket.
Then, clearly afraid I might change my mind, he pulled the bandana off his head and clutched it in his hand, trailing after me anxiously.
Clank—
I inserted the nozzle into the tank opening.
The numbers on the meter began climbing rapidly.
One gallon, five gallons, twenty gallons, fifty gallons...
The Black man pressed his nose close to the nozzle and sniffed hard.
The moment he caught the scent, his last trace of worry vanished, and he broke into a broad grin.
“Mmm... Holy shit! That sharp smell! This is good stuff! Looks like there’s barely any impurities at all—how the hell are you offering it at such a sexy price?”
“Well, that—”
“Oh my God! I asked something I shouldn’t have! My apologies, my sweet little kid. You’re my golden goose! And how does a goose make golden eggs? No problem. Not a problem at all. Golden eggs are what matters, not the process of how they hatch in the belly. I’m a man who knows what matters.”
He lifted a thick finger to my lips and shook his head emphatically.
“Haha, this is crazy. Makes me feel like a fool for all those times I paid Texaco $1.20 a gallon.”
When the fueling was done, the man grabbed my hand.
“Thanks, my friend. I was rude just now. Actually, I like Chinese people. When I was a kid, I used to run around pretending to be a ninja and stuff.”
“I’m not Chinese. I’m Korean. And a ninja is Japanese.”
“Oh, shit, my bad again. Korea’s even better, man. My uncle fought in the Korean War, you know. He can’t come back now, though.”
“I’m sorry about your uncle.”
“No need to be sorry. He got married there and’s living the good life. Visa issues keep him from coming back. He writes sometimes.”
The Black man threw back his head and laughed, then slapped me on the back.
“I’m Big Ben. I’m gonna have to come here every damn time now. Whenever I drive through this area, I’ll be sure to stop by. See you around, kid who’s good with numbers.”
Grinning brightly, he grabbed my hand, tugged it toward his fist, and bumped it once.
Then he climbed back into the truck and snatched up the radio mic.
Through the static, his voice rang out.
“Breaker, breaker 1-9! This is Big Ben!”
Truckers responded over the radio.
For reference, CB radio was the most common means of communication among truckers back then.
In an era when even cell phones were a luxury, let alone smartphones, long-haul drivers shared “important information” like traffic conditions and police checkpoints over those radios.
And among that important information was where to get cheap fuel.
A vein stood out on Big Ben’s hand as he gripped the mic.
“Listen up, you idiots, you hear me? There’s a gas station at mile 45 on Highway 1, and the diesel’s 89 cents a gallon! Eighty-nine cents! Cash only! Keep your mouths shut and get your fuel there!”
Snickering replies crackled out of the speaker.
“I’ll bet my ass on it, you bastards! I just put in 300 gallons myself! Saved a hundred bucks! This is your chance to screw Texaco over! If you don’t come now, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life!”
A silence filled with only static lingered for a moment.
And then, all at once, chatter exploded through the radio.
Before long, Big Ben gave a long blast of his horn and pulled out onto the highway.
I looked out toward the horizon.
How long had I stood there like that?
Bwoooom—
From the far end of the shimmering asphalt, heavy engine notes began to rise.
Dozens of massive trailers with their hazard lights blinking were charging toward Morgan Oil from both directions on the highway.
Red Kenworths, silver Freightliners, rusted Mack trucks—they came pouring into the entrance one after another.
At some point, Grandpa Morgan had come to stand beside me, and his eyes were wide as saucers.
“Oh, Lord... what on earth is all that?”
He adjusted his glasses and stumbled backward, his hands trembling violently.
Father clapped his hands once.
“It’s working, Mr. Morgan!”
“We’re starting! Grandpa, get ready too!”
Father and I rolled up our sleeves in a hurry.
Affiliate Shop No. 1. The real opening had begun.