Dalston had driven his ancient pickup truck for nearly two hours since leaving the last small town. He’d seen few signs of life, just an occasional farmhouse set well back from the road.
It was something he did for a few days once a year to relax from the rigours of his international business and financial entities: buying, rationalising and selling on companies with their drastically reduced workforces to satisfy the demanding shareholders and contribution-hungry politicians while claiming huge tax breaks. He would drive all day and camp out at night, shunning diners and restaurants, cooking over a fire and reliving his travels across the country as a young man.
Dalston realised the light was fading fast and his gas was running low, very low, and cursed himself for not filling up earlier. Then in the distance he saw a lone gas station. He drove in, stopped at the old-fashioned pumps and stepped out. An old man in faded blue overalls and a straw hat appeared and gazed at him incuriously.
‘Hi. Can you fill her up, please? I’m nearly empty.’
The old man looked his customer up and down. ‘You Dalston?’
‘Yes, I am. I’m surprised you recognised me in this old truck.’
‘Delos Dalston, the fifth-richest man in the country in nineteen-ninety-eight.’ Dalston inclined his head modestly.
‘Yes, but that was last year. Can you fill me up?’
‘Dalston, the man who believes in free enterprise, efficiency and letting the weakest go to the wall.’
‘I said I was,’ said Dalston, recognising his own words and just wanting to be on his way.
‘It’ll cost you a hundred bucks a gallon.’
Dalston spluttered. ‘That’s outrageous! It’s extortion!’
‘You believe in market forces, charging what the customer will pay, supply and demand and all the rest, don’t you?’
Dalston was silent, knowing what was coming.
‘You want fuel and haven’t got it. I’ve got it and I want money for it, therefore it’s a seller’s market. A hundred bucks a gallon is my price, take it or leave it.’
Dalston wondered if he could get help from elsewhere. He checked his phone – no signal. ‘How far to the next gas station?’
‘Forty-eight miles. Think you’ll make it? If not, it’s a long walk, and there ain’t much traffic about.’
‘OK, give me a couple of gallons, enough to get me to the next town.’
‘You asked me to fill her up. I reckon that’s fifteen gallons. A thousand five hundred dollars. Cash. I don’t take cards.’
For a mad moment Dalston considered knocking the old man down and taking the fuel for free, then common sense returned. He checked his cash. He always carried plenty, and could just cover it. ‘OK, do it,’ he snarled.
‘Money first.’ Dalston handed it over and the old man filled the tank. ‘It was a pleasure doing business with you, Dalston. Have a nice day.’
It was something he did for a few days once a year to relax from the rigours of his international business and financial entities: buying, rationalising and selling on companies with their drastically reduced workforces to satisfy the demanding shareholders and contribution-hungry politicians while claiming huge tax breaks. He would drive all day and camp out at night, shunning diners and restaurants, cooking over a fire and reliving his travels across the country as a young man.
Dalston realised the light was fading fast and his gas was running low, very low, and cursed himself for not filling up earlier. Then in the distance he saw a lone gas station. He drove in, stopped at the old-fashioned pumps and stepped out. An old man in faded blue overalls and a straw hat appeared and gazed at him incuriously.
‘Hi. Can you fill her up, please? I’m nearly empty.’
The old man looked his customer up and down. ‘You Dalston?’
‘Yes, I am. I’m surprised you recognised me in this old truck.’
‘Delos Dalston, the fifth-richest man in the country in nineteen-ninety-eight.’ Dalston inclined his head modestly.
‘Yes, but that was last year. Can you fill me up?’
‘Dalston, the man who believes in free enterprise, efficiency and letting the weakest go to the wall.’
‘I said I was,’ said Dalston, recognising his own words and just wanting to be on his way.
‘It’ll cost you a hundred bucks a gallon.’
Dalston spluttered. ‘That’s outrageous! It’s extortion!’
‘You believe in market forces, charging what the customer will pay, supply and demand and all the rest, don’t you?’
Dalston was silent, knowing what was coming.
‘You want fuel and haven’t got it. I’ve got it and I want money for it, therefore it’s a seller’s market. A hundred bucks a gallon is my price, take it or leave it.’
Dalston wondered if he could get help from elsewhere. He checked his phone – no signal. ‘How far to the next gas station?’
‘Forty-eight miles. Think you’ll make it? If not, it’s a long walk, and there ain’t much traffic about.’
‘OK, give me a couple of gallons, enough to get me to the next town.’
‘You asked me to fill her up. I reckon that’s fifteen gallons. A thousand five hundred dollars. Cash. I don’t take cards.’
For a mad moment Dalston considered knocking the old man down and taking the fuel for free, then common sense returned. He checked his cash. He always carried plenty, and could just cover it. ‘OK, do it,’ he snarled.
‘Money first.’ Dalston handed it over and the old man filled the tank. ‘It was a pleasure doing business with you, Dalston. Have a nice day.’
