The Station
Hal told me to take out the trash. I fished out the last hunk of chew and put it against my lip before yanking the bag out of the can and throwing it over my shoulder. The summer breeze hit me as soon as I pushed the door open. The dry heat seemed cool compared to the stuffy heat inside. The air-conditioner was broken again and wasn’t going to be fixed anytime soon, as if the station wasn’t run-down enough.
Old gravel crackled under my chucks as I lugged the bag across the lot to the dumpster. I passed Frank, who was filling up a few gallon jugs with gas. I nodded toward him, straightening my ball cap. He gestured back. Frank never said much, but seemed pleasant enough. Hal told us to always be friendly to regulars.
The stench of the dumpster was strong enough to drown out the fumes of gasoline. If i didn’t know better, I’d think someone was rotting in there. I tried to take few whiffs as I tossed the bag in. Glass bottles broke underneath the weight of it. Wiping my hands on my pants, I headed back inside, spitting on the ground in the meantime. 
The sound of crunching gravel (under shoes, tires) is one of my favorites. I like all the imagery and I wonder if the reference to the dumpster smelling like somone was rotting inside could be foreshadowing...
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