The large lighted sign sports the huge initials, “S. B.” I think it stands for “Standard British” or some such thing, but what I know is that my tank is low, so I pull into the station and stop near the pumps. Once I stop, it’s suddenly the late 1960’s, my driver’s license is still new, and I’m in an Impala, of all things.
The guy who rushes out to the pumps from the office is clean and official-looking, but has a beer gut. He also has a beard. “Yessir! Fillerup?”
Still getting my bearings from the crossover, I just shut off the car and nod.

“Regular or high octane?”
“Octane.” He nods again as if my reply were not strange in the least.
He takes off my gas cap, sticks the nozzle of the old-looking (even allowing for the time-shift) gas pump in, and begins pumping.
Pumping.
And it’s like another crossover, but this time its all coming from an unbelievable sound system. I look at the dashboard and see an AM radio, pushbuttons and all. I try the volume control, and sure enough, that’s where it’s coming from. Except that it’s not, really. It’s not coming from a speaker in the dash, or any speakers in the car that I can see. It pervades both the car and my body.
“Check the oil, sir?” In a normal tone of voice, though I can hear him well enough above the music. I don’t think that he hears it.
“Nah, it’s OK.”
He nods and begins spritzing and wiping the windshield.
The music is what is filling the tank. The tank? It’s filling me, isn’t it?
A flash before my eyes… The town I’m in is that town where I lived during my childhood and adolescence.
Yeah, it’s music. I’m listening to music. Wasn’t I just listening to music? Wasn’t I just walking with my ear buds in, when suddenly I was jerked sideways into this “review”?
Review! I forgot that’s what it was supposed to be. It seems so much like a gas station. I don’t think it will succeed at being a review, but I’ll at least give it a little effort.







