What's After the Piggy Bank?

• Author: Williams, Sandy
• Position: Viewpoint essay

The oversized S.U.V. pulled up sleekly to the gas pumps. Even with all the dirt roads in the area, there wasn't a speck of dust showing on the slick, black finish. The chrome wheels matched the emblem on the back: It was a Hummer.

The door swung open and a man stepped out, cell phone pressed to his ear, sparkling diamond rings on both hands, dark sunglasses, and a bright blue polo shirt so new it almost rustled.

He unscrewed the gas cap and began filling his tank. He depressed the button to let it run on automatic while he leaned against the vehicle and continued his wireless conversation. He paid no attention as the numbers spiraled upward ... $50, $60, then $80. The handle finally clicked and shut itself off at $92.86. He evened the purchase off to $93 and walked inside.

He never made eye contact when he dropped his plastic card onto the counter. I ran it through the machine, listening to him laugh with someone about their golf scores from the day before. He signed his John Hancock on the receipt and turned towards the door. He glanced around at me as an afterthought and said, "These gas prices are getting a little rough, aren't they?"

I just smiled and nodded in agreement, thinking to myself, "A little rough?"

The small country store where I work sits out in the middle of nowheresville in northeast Alabama. The closest grocery store is an eight-mile drive.

Folks in this rural community drive a dozen miles each way to work and back. They put in a grueling eight-hour shift in a poultry processing plant or a sock mill. With blue-collar wages here bobbing between $7 and $8 an hour, this means they are bringing home, after taxes, a mere $150 to $200 a week. Of that, they spend almost 20 percent just on their commute.

Every day, an old van pulls into my station. With no muffler, it's so loud I can hear it coming from almost a mile down the road. The woman behind the wheel looks almost fifty, but she's only twenty-two. An empty gap is all that's left where her front teeth once were, and a strong wind would probably sweep her ninety-pound frame up and whirl it all the way to Georgia.

The four small children tagging along with her walk single file into the store. Each day, one of them proudly waves a five-dollar bill for their gas. They stare at the sucker bowl, and I always give them at least two each, sometimes three, and then they race back outside to show their momma their prize. Watching them drive off, I can't help but wonder where that...