FIRST PLACE ESSAY: FREE LEMONADE WITH A FILL-UP

'When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.' My Mom echoes the line as if she is the originator of the coined phrase. As I look back, my day-that day-wasn't too sour, but it wasn't the most spectacular, either. No minor catastrophes, and no overwhelming spurts of happiness decorated my afternoon: a typical day in the life of a high school senior.

I drifted through the day effortlessly with a blah, blah, blah frame of mind. After school, my evening unfolded robotically. Organ lessons at 3:45, theory class at 5:00, a meeting at 7:00-1 had mastered the art of going through the motions of life.' On my way home and half alive, I cornered into a small filling station to gas up. Unleaded fuel gurgled through the spout, and an overwhelming high tickled my nose. A charming breeze hinted to the summer season creeping into fall. I glanced around, half-heartedly. Being 9:30, the area was hardly buzzing with activity-no young tots riding their squealing bikes and no joggers walking their leashed nuisances. The world seemed to be stuck in second gear. A crackling tune snatched my attention, though. The anythingbuthigh-quality speakers rang the Joe Diffie favorite, 'Ships that don't come in.' Clunk! The signal of a fully pumped gas tank jolted me from my gaze, and I completed the familiar routine. While leisurely plodding from the pump to the window, I began to take further notice of my environment (or lack thereof). The place was deserted. The other three pumps hung lifeless in their cradles, and probably remained so for quite some time.

I pulled out a twenty and wordlessly slid it across the counter. Almost as an afterthought, I peeped up and shot out a 'Hi.' The crooked smile of the elderly man opposite me caught me off guard.

'Nice night, isn't it?'

Jostled, I stammered a 'Y-yes. Yes it is.'

I've always loved the fifteenth of September. There's just something in the changing of the weather. It's my favorite time of the year.' I nodded, still speechless. A slight grin tugged at his friendly conversation. My birthday is coming up soon. Maybe that's why I like September so much. I can have cake on my birthday,' he winked. The sparkle in his eye reflected, and I giggled, genuinely impressed with the old guy. Countless creases circled his face, marking his 75 year old appearance. A slight gray ftizz crowned his head as a royal tribute. His trembling, unsteady hand dropped some coins into mine, and he added, 'You have a nice evening.'

'You, too,' I answered. The two words took on new meaning. Before, the phrase held no weight, no substance. But after his attitude changed mine, I took pride in wishing the man well.

On my drive home, I contemplated the incident. Several questions played through my mind. Why was a man-an old, watery-eyed man-working in the world's smallest gas station? Those were usually the jobs reserved for experience-hungry teenagers. Did he choose this for the rest of his life, or was he brought here for some other reason? The thought occurred to me that maybe this was one of the few jobs he could handle, both mentally and physically. I quickly ruled out the mental factor; he was clearly competent throughout our encounter. Nevertheless, he worked there, sitting in a cracker-box booth, taking money, and handing the kiddies free pieces of cheap gum. Though I wouldn't consider his a coveted career, he showed me the honor of a gas station attendant. He greeted people on a personal level, and each individual departed with an added bounce in every step. He splashed a little color to our sometimes bland world, free of charge. Through our chance meeting, he showed me how to make lemonade' from a crummy situation. Perhaps he was kind in order to boost his own dull day, or maybe he just wanted to boost another's. Either way, he completed his mission. I left the shabby booth with change in my pocket, a smile on my face, and a happiness in my heart.