Mina, Nevada, along lonely U.S. 95, is a few dozen homes, a few businesses, a tiny post office and one or two gas stations. It’s pretty darn close to being a ghost town.
I stopped at one gas station, not for fuel but for an ice cream, which was advertised on the front door. The clerk was smoking a cigarette and playing one of the three slot machines in the musty, dark place, where half the shelves were bare.
The area behind the counter was a hodgepodge of trashy looking odds and ends. The ice cream was in a regular refrigerator. I opted for what I thought was an Eskimo Pie, but it was chocolate inside, which was acceptable. I wondered how long it had been in that fridge, but I didn’t ponder that thought too long. “It’s frozen, so it’s okay,” I figured. But I concluded that I would probably not buy any bread due to the potential staleness factor.
As I paid for my ice cream bar I asked the clerk if she really did sell gasoline. As you can tell by the weathered sign, that would be a logical question. “Oh, yes, she said, but we’re out right now.”
As I left the store into the chilly but sunny day, the clerk walked back to her slot machine, dropped in a coin and puffed her cigarette.
(I wrote this in 2012. If you have an update about anything here, please leave a comment).