I was the night shift cashier at a gas station/mini-mart in Bridgeport, California one summer. Ours may have been the only gas station or store open all night on that stretch of 395 between Mammoth and Topaz. Not too many people pulled in, but we got enough to make it worthwhile to the station’s owner. One night in late August, just before four a.m. when the chill was really beginning to set in, an old MG roadster bounced up to the pumps. It was top down and stacked with suitcases, crushed u-haul boxes, picture frames, a bit of old carpet [Read More]