Where am I?

Where did this gas station come from?

It's what you wonder as you pull up, the sharp burn of gasoline licking the insides of your lungs and nostrils.  You've driven down this road at least a thousand times.  And yet...

I've never seen this place before.

It's strange, how sinister a thing can seem purely from being unfamiliar.

The fluorescent lights flicker in a way that makes you even more uneasy, but your fuel light has been on for miles, and its steady gleam is starting to glower straight at your soul.  You don't like this place, and somehow, you feel it doesn't like you.  But, your near-empty tank insists, you don't have much choice.

You pass several gas pumps on your way to the low, wide front of the station, and in the glass you see yourself approach.  The glare from the lit pumps keeps you from seeing if anyone is even inside.  It wouldn't surprise you a bit if there weren't.

But there is.  Beyond a pale counter scattered with papers stands a tall man, gaunt but solid, silently stacking a pile of spilled lighters into a tipped-over display.  They're the cheap kind.  The attendant doesn't notice you at all, opting for paying attention to the cheap lighters.  At least, you think he doesn't notice you.  But as soon as your eyes turn from him, scanning the small, cold interior of the station for any other patrons, he speaks to you.

"What pump?"

His voice is rasping and flat, and he sounds as though he spends his time smoking every brand of cigarettes in the case behind him.  You furrow your brow, thinking it's odd for him to assume you're standing there for gasoline.  Maybe you want cigarettes.  Or gum.  Or a cheap lighter.

"What pump?" he repeats.  "What pump?"

I heard you the first time, you think.  It's all very uncomfortable and strange.  The chill from the nearby refrigerated aisle is becoming invasive.

But you can't remember where the car is parked.  In fact, you barely remember parking it at all.

"I don't know," you answer.

The attendant finally looks up, his dark eyes shining at you from under the frayed rim of a ball cap.

"I'll help you," he says.  "They're all very different.  You can't mistake one for the other."

"But... Evidently, I can, because-"

"There are four working pumps," says the station attendant, and holds up four fingers up for you.  "They are Pump 3, Pump 4, Pump 6, and Pump 10."

"There are ten pumps outside?" You don't recall seeing that many.

"Pump 3 runs smooth and stays well lit.  It's the trustiest pump," the attendant adds, as if he's speaking of an animal.  "Pump 4 acts up from time to time.  It may dribble on your shoes or spit at your shins, but it means no harm.  It's the odd pump."

You grow more confused.  You had no idea that the emotional state of fuel pumps was so complicated, or so pertinent.

"The lights at Pump 6 are always out.  You can see to work it by the lights of the others, but be careful of the buttons you press.  The others think it's a touch possessed.  Possessed, they say!" And he laughs so loudly and suddenly that you flinch, drawing back.  In the next instant, he's grave again.

"Pump 10 is nothing incredible.  It pumps."

You blink.

"So," he sucks in a breath, repeating himself a final time.  "What pump?"

You turn your head slowly to the darkness beyond the glass doors, squinting into the fluorescent and asphalt wasteland outside.

Where did I park?

Pump 3.

Pump 4.

Pump 6.

Pump 10.