…the fuel pump. It was the most immediate way to get someone's attention, and standing on top of it would give you a vantage point—if you could make it up there. The fuel pump was a massive, towering structure from your shrunken perspective, like a skyscraper, its metal surface gleaming in the dim light of the fluorescent lights above. You could hear the mechanical whirring of the pumps, the whoosh of the gas dispenser nozzles sliding in and out of their holders, and the occasional rumble of a car engine starting. Every sound seemed magnified by your smallness, and the occasional gust of wind sent tiny debris flying past you, like small boulders rolling down the sidewalk.
The asphalt beneath you felt like a vast, oppressive plain of rough, jagged terrain. Each crack in the concrete was like a canyon, and the occasional tire tread left an indelible imprint on the earth. You took in the scenery, your heart pounding, your thoughts racing. The first hurdle was crossing the expanse of asphalt between you and the fuel pump. It felt like an eternity, but you had to act fast before another car pulled in or that damn crackhead turned her attention back to you.
Taking a deep breath, you began your journey. The ground was uneven, with patches of oil and grease here and there, sticky and slick underfoot. You steeled yourself against the rough terrain, walking past a discarded soda can that could easily trap you underneath if you weren’t careful or if the wind picked up. Every sound was a threat: the screech of car tires, the low growl of idling engines, and the occasional shout from the teens who carelessly heckled anyone who passed by.
As you neared the base of the fuel pump, the shadows grew deeper, stretching out like fingers ready to grab you. The vertical surface meant you had to climb the pump from the back, near the metal tubing that led to the nozzle. There, the surface was rough and pocked with imperfections—and easy enough for you to climb. You glanced up; the top of the pump seemed miles away, but there was no time to second guess yourself.
You placed your first foot on a worn metal panel, the smooth surface slick under your tiny foot. The sheer scale of it was almost overwhelming, but your survival instinct kicked in. You could do this. Using your hands to grip the rough edges of the pump’s base, you began your ascent. Each movement was slow and deliberate. Your muscles strained as you pulled yourself up, the pump rattles as another car pulls up. Every few seconds, the sound of these cars made you freeze, praying you wouldn't fall to your death.
The climb was exhausting. You had to pause every so often, your tiny hands slipping against the greasy metal. You wipe your palms on your legs, hoping you won't lose your grip. A car pulled into the adjacent pump, its tires screeching against the pavement, and you froze, heart hammering in your chest, praying the driver wouldn't pull this nozzle. The giant tire next to you looked like a vast wall, and you could feel the vibrations from the engine rippling through the ground. But the driver was busy, and after a moment, the car rumbled to a stop, the gas nozzle clicked into place, and you were free to continue your climb.
Finally, after what felt like hours, you reached the top of the pump. From this height, you could see everything: the entire gas station laid out before you, the towering convenience store, the crackhead muttering to herself at the corner of the lot, and the teenagers still laughing by the door. But your focus was on the cars. You needed to get noticed. You glanced around frantically, your eyes catching a nice-looking sedan at the edge of the station. The driver: a well-dressed middle-aged man is accompanied by who you assume to be his wife or girlfriend. As the car pulls into the stall, you brace yourself as the man runs his card and grabs the nozzle. He's yet to notice you but those chances would only increase if you tried to climb his arm. Before it pulls away, you decide to...
