"What's going on with that guy?" I said without thinking.
"The car ahead of him probably isn't done yet, and he doesn't feel like waiting," my patient husband replied. In a few moments, he slid our Prius into the spot at the pump formerly held by the aforementioned Rogue Van.
As Rick was pumping gas, I watched the lackadaisical SUV driver ahead of us. He looked foreign, maybe Mediterranean or Slavic. His clothes were a rumple of two shirts, dark pants, and slip-on sandals and socks. He had hair falling into his eyes, and in his mouth was an unlit cigarette. Done fueling, he simply stood at the rear of the car, doing I knew not what.
Pretty soon he wandered away, probably to have that cigarette, leaving his gassed up car parked at the pump. In a few moments, a back passenger door opened. Tumbling out as if he had been ejected or had fallen, a boy of about eleven or twelve appeared. He was wearing a teeshirt and nylon basketball-type shorts, and his hair was moppy and Early Bieber-esque. He was extremely chubby everywhere, and as he stood there, he scratched his considerable stomach, stretched, and then continued to merely stand there, shielding his eyes a bit from the sun, now and then jerking his head so as to flip the hair from his face. A woman's voice called out something from the car, and he said, "But it's so hot in there. And I'm tired." Another admonition from the car. It was ignored, and the man was nowhere in sight. The boy stood there some more.
Rick finished up and got in the car. As he did so, the boy turned around, and I got a glimpse of his teeshirt's slogan. How good is this?