Gas Station Paul

During my last year of college, my roommate Laura and I threw a themed party every month. (I feel like it was to just clean the apartment.) We’d hand out fliers to friends—actual paper fliers—and each party had a concept.

One of our favorites was the Rob and Laura Petrie Party, a nod to The Dick Van Dyke Show, where it always seemed like people ended up at their house performing such as dancing or playing the piano and singing. That became our theme: if you came to the party, you had to perform. See flier below.

We had a trumpet player doing “Mack the Knife.” An accordion solo. A magic show by my brother that kicked things off. It was strange and perfect.

One day while handing out fliers, I walked across the street to the gas station. There was a guy I’d see there all the time—Paul, according to his name tag. For some reason, I handed him a flier and invited him. He didn’t say much, just kind of nodded.

But he showed up.

And then he showed up again. Paul wasn’t much of a talker. He was older than us, what we college kids called a “townie.” But he was always early, always quiet, always had a few drinks, and always passed out on Laura’s bed. When the party ended, we’d wake him up and he’d head home. That was the pattern. It became part of the rhythm of those parties.

One time, Paul invited us to a party at his apartment. It was small—only a handful of us went. At some point, he told us he used to be in the CIA and that he was interviewing to be the next head coach of the Miami Dolphins. We all looked around and silently agreed it was probably time to go. But Brian stayed, mostly out of politeness, Catholic guilt, or serious curiosity.

We didn’t really know Paul. We never learned his last name. But over time, he earned a nickname—Gas Station Paul—and a weird sort of place in the fabric of our year. He was one of those people who show up in your life out of nowhere, make an impression, and then drift off. We didn’t understand what alcoholism looked like back then. We just accepted Paul for what he was to us. A staple. A mystery. A guy with a name tag and a head full of stories.

And he wasn’t the only one.

There was Preservative Kid, who people claimed would go off the rails after too many Lunchables.

Jetpack Boy, who wore his backpack like a flight harness and made tight, fast turns in the halls like he was training for liftoff.

All these people had roles in the background of our lives—odd ducks with odd habits who showed up just long enough to stick in our memory.

I still think about them now and then. I wonder what happened to them. I know I’ll never find out.

But here’s something I’ve come to believe: there’s value in embracing the temporary.

Not every connection is built to last. Some people are just meant to pass through—a scene, a season, a moment—and that’s okay. It doesn’t make them less meaningful. Sometimes those passing characters leave sharper memories than the ones who stayed.

So here’s to Gas Station Paul, and everyone like him.

The ones we barely knew.

The ones who drifted through.

The ones who somehow stayed with us anyway.

If you’ve got a few of those people rattling around in your memory, maybe smile about it. Maybe wonder where they ended up. Maybe just be glad they passed through at all.

They made our story more interesting.