My empty light blinks on. Pulling off the interstate as my two-year old daughter sings, a gas station is nowhere to be seen.
A rickety metal Sinclair sign sends me 3 miles down a rutted back road in southern Indiana. 210 more words
Months ago I heard about a nifty new strategy for robbers and thieves. They would roll up next to your car at the gas station, and while you’re busy filling up your tank with gas (just ignore this my NJ peeps, everyone else in the states has to pump their own gas) the bad guys will drive up next to the passenger side of your car, and in one swift move jump out, open up your door and boom, snatch your purse right off the seat! 512 more words
I grew up in Tulsa, which is to say I grew up going to QuikTrip. And I went for anything but a gas. I’d ride my bike to the nearest one for a Gatorade after practice, snack after school. 575 more words