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Seattle. We shook hands warmly, then hugged, and kibitzed around for a couple of minutes. It was a lot of small talk, but I was glad to see them. Once a Marine, always a Marine. It was great to make the connection again. I offered them each a soda from the refrigerator outside the office and then I asked them how they had found me. I hadn’t given my work address to anyone.
    “C’mon, Scotty. ’Course you did.”
    “Where? When?” I asked.
    And then they reminded me about the ex-servicemen’s contact office down at the Crossroads of the World in Hollywood.
    “You filled out a card, dumb head,” they chided.
    Of course! It had been a couple of weeks since I’d filled out the card. Amazingly, another Marine compatriot showed up a couple of days later. And then another. And another. Within a fortnight I’d been contacted by at least a dozen of my old buddies from the Corps. Over the next few weeks one or two of them would show up at the station every day or so. And it wasn’t long before it became a daily ritual. Small groups of them began congregating just as I arrived for work at five o’clock. Many of them had found girlfriends and they would bring them along, too. The guys just wanted to shoot the breeze with one another for an hour or two, talk about ball game scores and catch up on news and events before they all went their separate ways as the evening wore on. A couple of them had bought cars—old jalopies mainly—that they brought in and filled up with gas. Others rode motorcycles. All of them bought gas and oil from me and occasionally they would bring their vehicles in for a service and an oil change. A guy by the name of Wilbur McGee—or “Mac” as he was better known—manned the service bay during the day but in the evenings I took care of all the jobs for my friends. I did lubes, changed oil, put in new spark plugs, charged batteries, rotated tires, changed brake linings, fixed radiator leaks.
    As time went by my Marine pals would bring their civilian friends over and so the circle constantly widened. Soon the station took on the role that the shopping mall plays in the lives of kids today. The Richfield gas station on Hollywood Boulevard became the fashionable place for guys and gals between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five to hang out. The place buzzed, business boomed, and my boss, Bill Booth, who leased the station from the Richfield Gas Company, was as happy as a pig in clover.
    B ECAUSE THE GAS station was in the heart of Hollywood, many of the rich and famous also stopped by to purchase gas from me. One of them was playwright Jerome Lawrence along with his writing partner Robert E. Lee. Jerry was the other half of the famous team, Lawrence and Lee. They wrote thirty-nine works together including the librettos for Dear World and Auntie Mame. They also wrote The Night Thoreau Spent in Jail , First Monday in October, and the classic courtroom drama, Inherit the Wind. Jerry would stop by, fill up his tank, and then chat for a half hour or so.
    Another good customer was an exceptionally talented and very handsome young and upcoming author by the name of Gore Vidal. Gore was one of the nicest, brightest men I knew. He would go on to become a towering force in the world of modern literature, screen-writing, and sociopolitical commentary. He has remained a close friend ever since we first met. Actor Glenn Ford became a regular. So did producer Harry Cohn, head of Columbia Pictures, which was just down the road. Hermes Pan the choreographer came to the station, too. He once claimed that he had choreographed every single musical starring that royal dancing duo, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, including their final partnering in The Barkleys of Broadway. Actor Lionel Barrymore often came to the station, as did Bing Crosby and Bob Hope. Rock Hudson and one of his young gay lovers drove in one night in a brand-new 1947 Chevrolet Coupe, of which he was very proud. He filled up and we chatted; every