The engine muttered to a stop. I swung my door open hitting the car next to me. It wasn’t a very nice car. You can tell that it’s seen better days by looking at the dents, scratches, and chipping paint. The bottom of the car was filled with golden rust. There was more rust then actual paint. I couldn’t tell what the actual color of the car was, and the front right tire happened to be a spare. The car was a Toyota, maybe a ninety-two, if I had to guess. I could tell that my black mark would just add to the canvas. I kind of chuckled to myself thinking “This car is so beat up; the owner would not even notice that I slammed my door into the side.”

I headed around the corner of the busy Shell gas station. Every pump was full, and there were many cars waiting to feed their gas meters. The fumes filled my nose like a bunch of roses in a garden. I walked to the two glass doors, and of course I pushed when it said pulled. I looked around to see if anybody saw my blunder, no one watched, I sighed in relief as my red tomato face went away. I walked into the station, and searched for what I wanted.
It was seven thirty in the morning, there wasn’t much I was in the mood for, but knew I had to eat something. I picked up the healthiest thing I could find, a Snicker’s. The brown wrapper with blue, white, and red words spoke to me. They said, “You know you want me”, so I grabbed it.

I looked up after seizing my delightful snack, and saw this man. He was wearing an orange shirt. He was a black man, and he had a gentle smile on his face. I said, “Good morning,” and tried to escape from conversation. His jeans were sagging, and they rested on the floor as he walked. The long orange sleeves covered his palms, and his fingers were peeking out of the cuffs. He nodded back, and we went on looking for our next purchase.
My Snicker’s and I walked into line fearing that the person in front of me was going to buy lottery tickets. When people buy lottery tickets it feels like they just keep spitting out numbers, and never stop, thinking that the more numbers they buy the greater the chance, but in all honesty they have slim to none and are hoping that some greater force would help them gain luck and win the life changing amount of money.
I glance back, and the man in the orange shirt was now behind me. He continued to grin, looking at everyone and everything. His smile reached from ear to ear, never fading. This man was the epitome of a morning man.
I continued to look forward, praying for someone to hurry up in front of me so I can get back into my car, but the dreadful moment came true, someone was buying lottery tickets.
It felt like I was going to blow smoke out of my ears in anger, turn red, and adapt cartoon characteristics. I started to curse this man in my mind, “What the heck, its seven o’clock in the morning, why do you need to buy tickets!” I was obviously getting frustrated, my patience is now at a minimum, and I wanted to leave.
I started to fidget in line and I turned around, to look to see if I shared the same frustrated feeling as anyone else, but to my surprise this man in the orange was still smiling. There was a tear on one of the sleeves and an abundant amount of stains, but I couldn’t help but smile back. It was contagious.
There was no conversation with this man at all, but yet he affected my mood, and changed my morning, I was finally up at the register and paid for my snickers. I walked out of the gas station and casually walked to my car.
I swung the door open, again laughing about me hitting the door earlier, and sat down in the smooth leather seat. I turned the car on and heard it mutter to a start. I looked next to me, and the man in the orange shirt was getting into the beaten up, broken, ugly, old car I just made fun of. I felt bad, but I couldn’t help but smile because this man continued to smile.