War Cry - February, 2016 Page 18

It must have been almost an hour later that

another man asked for the restroom key. I put
my hand in my pocket--no key. "Sorry, the last
guy must've left it in the restroom," I said.
"Happens all the time. Let me get the spare."

I took the spare key off the hook behind the

cash register and headed for the restroom. By
this time, the man who'd wanted it wasn't
around; I guess he'd changed his mind. I still
needed to get the public key back. I turned the
spare key in the lock and opened the door.

The kid lay slumped against the toilet with a

needle stuck in his arm. Blood was pumping out,
running down the porcelain, pooling on the floor.

It gave the air a metallic tang. I pulled the
needle out. With a rumpled handkerchief I
pressed hard into the crook of his arm to stop the
bleeding. I got down beside him and draped his
good arm over my shoulder. "Come on, son, get
your legs under you." I pulled him onto his feet.
"You're going to be OK," I said, but I didn't know
if it was true.

Half-dragging, half-walking the kid, I brought

him to the back room we use for storage. It has a
sink, so we use it for a break room too. I eased
him down onto a chair and took off his blood-
soaked shirt. I wet my handkerchief in the sink
and tried to wash the blood off his arm.

"Are you going to call the police?" The words

sounded as weak as a sigh.

"No, I won't do that," I promised him.
"Please don't. I don't want any problems."
"No, I'm not going to do that," I repeated. I

spread fender covers like a pallet on the floor. "I'd
like to see if you would just lie down here." The
kid lowered himself awkwardly onto the make-
shift bed. I folded an oil rug and tucked it under

his head for a pillow and spread another for a
blanket. "Lie down here and just relax."

I rinsed some of the blood out of the kid's shirt

at the sink and draped the shirt over a chair to
dry. He was breathing evenly when I closed the
door softly behind me.

I told the mechanics, "Don't go in the back

room. We've got a kid resting in there." When
they heard what happened, some said they would
have called the police, but I knew the law was
rough on people involved with drugs. I didn't feel
that approach would be any help.

The kid slept for a few hours. Then he opened

the door of the back room, fumbling to button up

his damp shirt, unsteady on his feet. The first
thing he said was, "Did you call the police?"

"No, I promised you that I was not going to

do that, and I didn't," I assured him. He gave me
a hug. "How about a cup of coffee before you go?"
I asked. The kid nodded and sat down. I poured
us each a mug of coffee and passed sugar and
creamer to him. He stirred in several heaping
spoonfuls.

"Please," I said, "don't do drugs anymore."

The kid said nothing. "You're a young fellow," I
continued. "You've got a lot to look forward to in
life." I sipped my coffee. The kid remained silent,
his expression bleak. I went on, "Son, this is not
the way to go. Look where you're headed. Open
your eyes."

The kid looked me in the eye. He stood up and

squared his shoulders. "Thanks," he said.
"Goodbye."

I keep the service station open most holidays.

It doesn't pay financially, but when somebody
needs gas or repairs on a holiday, it's helpful for
them to find us open. Right around Christmas a

The War Cry | FEBRUARY 2016

"Can I have the key to the restroom?"

The kid looked no more than 17 or 18

years old, but as tired as an old man.

"Sure." I gave him the key.
I own a service station. My policy is that we don't reserve the restroom for customers

only. I fi gure one small way we can serve folks is to let them use the restroom.

Being

Service

by ARNOLD MENDEZ, as told to Alison P. Martinez

14-15_BeingofService_WCFeb16_REWerk.indd 1

1/12/16 3:58 PM