An old man pumped my gas tonight.

It is a cold night that keeps most indoors. The roads are clear. At nearly two a.m. I pull off Ninth just after the traffic light to fill up the tank. Upon my arrival, an old man rises from a stool, puts down a bible and begins to limp slowly towards my car.

When he reaches the half-open window of my Volvo station wagon, he looks tired. He is pale and thin-haired. He lacks the extra pounds that men of his age often display, sometimes proudly as a mark of their comfort. His eyes are deep caves. He looks uncomfortable in tight jeans and a torn outdated Aeropostal jacket. The Salvation Army doesn't have fitting rooms and they certainly don't let you pick and choose.

The man does not smile. No phony "Hello and welcome to..." He emits a sense of determination so subtle yet intense I know it can only be the product of true desperation. I watch in extreme discomfort as this old man fights with everything he has to retain his dignity. But it is clear that he is tired of struggling to hold himself up as he fills it with premium for the rich college jocks in their daddy’s BMWs. The old man is slowing down but the world is speeding up.

I am suddenly sweating even though subzero wind is gusting in though the open window. The car’s heated leather seats burn my legs now. Subconsciously and discreetly I cover the thousand dollar laptop that sits on the passenger seat with a ratty old tee shirt. I turn off the chipper pop song that my $300 iPod touch is blaring. I feel ill.

I nod as the man hands me my change and pretend to check my watch at the same time, too ashamed to look him in the eye.