56...

Randy tugged up on the legs of his overalls and moved his hand airily around the antennae of the radio which must have been pushing forty years old. The radio mostly just produced shimmering and faint lines of Spanish-flecked blues that sounded as if they were flying through layers of air, still thick with time. Depending on how he curved his fingers, these ghost tones would seem to bend on rails of soft static.
He detected a bright flash from the corner of his eye and quickly spun his head to peer out the thick, bulletproof glass. There was nothing out there that wasn't there before; two rows of empty gas pumps, cracked tarmac, a thin ribbon of road that at some point joined the interstate, and all of those low and rounded hills made gold with grass scorched in the heat.
The motor of the fan in the beer and soda cooler kicked on, vibrating the silence and sending the static spikes on the radio swirling. Randy, or 'E' as he had tried to convince his friends to call him, looked slowly at the cooler, focusing behind the bottles. He then looked opposite, again slowly, at the radio. He then took a long, slow look around the small gas station convenience market he sat in. He suddenly felt a little slow and strange. He felt as if he were made aware of something important and had forgotten it, as if he had been imbued with fast and loose knowledge.
Randy had been unable to make the nickname of 'E' stick, and he angrily blamed it on friends and family, people that he had been surrounded by his entire life, attempting to keep him in his place, attempting to keep him stuck inside his tiny, nowhere town. Interestingly enough, this made a good excuse for him never to leave said town, never to attempt going to college, or traveling out of state, or even traveling the four hours north to San Francisco. Ultimately, it made a good excuse to work for just over minimum wage in this gas station that was miles from any other permanent building.
He reached for a cigarette in the jumpsuit pocket that would normally hold pens and a tire pressure gauge. He plucked out the smoke and stared at it for a moment. He had been told before that he was not supposed to smoke inside the shop, that it was in fact against the law. He considered going into the cooler and blowing the smoke through the fan. That sounded pretty good actually, it was already getting pretty stuffy inside and hot and dry outside. He could keep a listen for approaching cars, but honestly he’d had one customer the entire day and that was over three hours ago. Usually people only stopped at this forsaken station if they were desperately low on gas, or if they were looking for directions somewhere.
The tuning of the radio suddenly got stronger and more defined. A slow, bluesy riff that sounded like it had crept out of some neon-soaked, endless night erupted and was quickly swallowed by a harsh squeal of static before the radio numbed down to its usual low volume. Randy turned towards it and was about to lean over and adjust the antennae when he caught that flash again from the corner of his eye.
He peered out again at those empty hills and this time caught the dark spot of a vehicle climbing the windy road up from the interstate. The heavy morning sun caught the windshield at the curves and threw out bright spotlights.
Placing the cigarette on the counter, Randy stood up and quickly brushed off his overalls. He stretched slightly and popped his neck. He prepared to meet this poor person who had apparently become lost.