Check your oil. Clean your window.

I stopped at a convenience store yesterday to buy the summer’s first sweet corn. That’s the farmer’s maroon truck at 3 o’clock. When I pulled my car up, the corn lady was over by a pump talking with a big, bearded guy whose dog was lying on the car’s hood while he pumped gas.

I bought four ears of corn. And then walked over and asked the fellow if I could photograph his dog. He said yes, and moved behind me so my subject would follow him for the proper pose.

When the canine stood up, I saw Cotton’s rag.

I grew up in America in the 1950s. My dad always stopped for gas at a Standard Oil service station on Locust Street run by Cotton. Red-faced Cotton never wore a hat and had fair hair. He seemed to be my dad’s age.

Cotton would pump gas, check under the hood, and wipe windows. His red, white speckled rag hung out of a back pocket. It squeaked as he scrubbed the front windshield.

His business had two pumps with just enough room on each side for one car. A hose was laid across the concrete that announced a customer with a ding ding. I never saw anyone but Cotton service our vehicle.

Dad and Cotton seemed to be friends. They always chatted. My dad was an engineer and knew cars inside and out.

And then, suddenly, we stopped getting our gas at Cottons. I didn’t ask my dad what happened.

And never saw Cotton again.