In the years before unleaded, when everything br ran smooth as asphalt, br my father sold gasoline wholesale— br stored barrels that accumulated br a thick pitch of years as the platform planks br darkened with creosote— br a smell that walked in br on my father’s boots, the big boots br with rawhide laces and the smell br came into the house br like soot from an old fire. br br In the summer, my sister and I played br in the fumes of 40 weight and 30, br scent of Zerolene, Ethyl and Supreme, br valve oil, pearl oil, tractor roller grease. br All summer, the smell of gasoline br intoxicated us br where grasshoppers clattered in the fields, br where cattle rubbed against barbed wire br leaving tufts of brown hide, br and the trains rattled by. br Twice a day, we stood with our fingers br laced in chain link, waiting br to catch the afternoon run br from Suisun City br when the engineers had to wave br and the caboose was always red br with a coating of oil br like everything br my father touched. br br At night, I’d hear the brakes br squeak in the driveway, br see the light inside the truck br come on, go out. br My father went to work at sunup br and came home tracking in the dark.