As Joni Mitchell once so poignantly sang, "You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone." Well friends, the Shell station is gone (temporarily, anyways) and I already miss it. Sure, in a mere five to six weeks, ghetto Shell will make its triumphant return as a Midtown fixture, but in that same time frame I will make an equally triumphant exit from the verdant meadows of Saint Louis University. So long Shell station, I barely knew ye.
Like many Billikens, my love affair with ghetto Shell is forever intertwined with the throes of nicotine addiction. They say smoking will kill me, and never was the surgeon general more accurate than when I ventured to Shell for another pack of cigs.
Every trip was its own adventure, a real-life game of Pac-Man where I dodged bums, thugs and drunk drivers on my way to a boombastic box of Marlboros or a killer can of Skoal.
The game required mad skills, but the reward made it all worthwhile. By the end of my freshman year, I was a certified Midtown veteran, baptized in a gasoline-fed fire we natives call ghetto Shell.
It's probably a sign I smoke too much, but as time passed, I began to notice the regulars. Guy With Car Trouble perpetually parked near the vacuum cleaners and had a different story every week as to why he always broke down in the exact same spot at the exact same gas station. Occasionally, his infant child was inside the car, although his alcohol-impaired cadence made this claim dubious at best (I hope).
Mysterious Chronic Illness haunted the payphones, and anyone caught walking on his sidewalk owed him at least a 50-cent toll. He swore on his mother's grave that you were financing treatment for some horrible, terminal disease and would promptly use your donation for his good health to procure cigarettes.
It was the least intelligent, or most licentious, begging tactic the world has ever known. Half a dollar was more than worth witnessing such a blatant middle finger.
Dubiously Hungry Man was another regular. Cursed with an eternal case of the munchies, DHM patrolled the scene with an itchy, wild-eyed countenance found exclusively upon savvy crack connoisseurs. Culinary needs were obviously a distant second to obtaining a crack rock the size of Mount Rushmore, but I always felt bad if I didn't aid DHM in his perpetual quest for "a cup of coffee." I gave this man enough cash to finance his own damned Starbucks, so hopefully he used my four-year investment well, because I'm graduating, and the next generation will have to pick up the slack.
The honeymoon has long since ended in my Shell relationship, but I still return, even though The Great Doral Price Hike of '03 threatened my patronage. Tax increases are a hella hard, and I had long since become accustomed to breaking four bills on a pack of Marlboros, but when the relatively generic Doral brand crossed the $3 threshold, I was mighty pissed indeed.
In the years since, the anger has subsided, and I realize there is no one to blame but myself. Yes, I was one of the Doral (pronounced "door-ell," thank you very much) pioneers, and the secret was too good to contain. For two wonderful years, I was ballin' on a budget of discount cigs that almost tasted like the real thing-after six beers. Soon enough, the rest of the cancer crowd caught on, and word of mouth ruined my ability to ruin my lungs, dirt-cheap. It was a tragedy that haunts me to this day.
Who can say what the future holds for the noble Shell station? I probably should, but as we all know, reporting that requires a substantial effort that isn't exactly my calling card. No, I prefer to gossip, and the rumor mill is a-churnin'.
Only a freshman could have started the pipedream that Shell is remodeling to sell beer. Listen kiddies, I hate to sound like a cynical, snooty upperclassman, but after four years of visiting the establishment after dark, I say with absolute certainty that the National Guard would arrive in a week if Shell sold booze.
You think the bums are cranky after an hour without a cig? Try them after three bottles of Thunderbird fortified wine. People would get stabbed with windshield wipers. Trust me kids, you do not want alcohol at Shell.
The more likely SLUmor-Christ, I hate that word-is that Shell is expanding to include a coffee shop. I hate to be a smartass (OK, actually I love it), but the idea of a Ghetto Shell java joint is even more laughable than the liquor store option. Nothing would make me happier than to eat my words a decade from now, but I doubt that ghetto Shell will ever become a hotspot for cramming. Police sirens tend to derail one's train of thought, you know.
Whatever happens, I hope that an armed guard is part of the plans. Future generations of Billikens might never know the thrill of running for one's life while sucking on a cig, but that's probably a good thing.
