Pumps & Panic

Diesel hum. Blue light. Gravel grind. Midnight miracle on borrowed time. Backlot diesel, service lane, Plastic city, chemical rain. Crowd sees lasers, smoke, and stars, I see backed-up banks of portable hearts. Tank gauge twitching, route sheet bent, West gate line at critical length. Blue juice low and the paper gone, One bad hour and the whole thing’s wrong. Pump hose ready, gloves on tight, Another quiet war on a Saturday night. You call it gross, I call it late, One more job between the dream and failure state. Tank full. Pump on. Fresh water running thin by dawn. Restock. Rotate. Hold the line before it breaks. “Service copy.” “On my way.” “Do not open.” “Too late.” Pumps and panic, hotline glow, Nobody sees me till it overflows. Backlot saint in a reflective coat, Keeping one more dream afloat. You chase the drop, I stop the flood, Keep the whole damn city standing in the mud. Pumps and panic, radio hot— You don’t say my name till the whole thing stops. South bank backed up, east row dead, Somebody’s banging on a plastic shed. Queue line snaking, tempers bright, Handwash dry in the sodium light. Tipped one unit by the merch lot fence, Another one blocked by a sponsor tent. Runner on comms says, “Can you swing?” Buddy, I’m out here saving civilization from a smell with teeth. Black water heavy, fresh tank low, Need a clean turn fast on the outer row. Ground crew nods like they know the score, Because they’ve seen this movie four times before. I pump, I prime, I clear, I spray, Keep disaster one thin wall away. If dignity’s real, it lives back here In neon muck and a biohazard smear. West bank. Red. North lane. Blocked. Paper dead. Keep it stocked. Call comes in— “Need one more.” Yeah, no kidding. That’s what I’m for. Pumps and panic, hotline glow, Nobody sees me till it overflows. Backlot saint in a reflective coat, Keeping one more dream afloat. You chase the lights, I clear the rot, Keep the whole damn fairy tale from tying in knots. Pumps and panic, radio hot— You don’t say my name till the whole thing stops. I cut between the fences near the food-truck line, Take one second. Breathe. Step into the light. A couple kids are laughing, glitter on their cheeks, Arms round each other like the whole world’s sweet. I give a little wave. “Hey. Y’all good tonight?” Nothing. Not rude— just straight through me, like I’m part of the site. They turn back to the music. Back to whatever song saved their week. And I head back to the truck thinking: Yeah. That tracks. Keep it clean. Keep it moving. Don’t take it personal. Pressure rising in the line, Acid chewing through the spine. Blue beacon, gravel spray, Service route becomes ballet. Vac tank hum and engine whine, One more rescue, right on time. “Ops to service—status check.” “Containment stable. Stand by next.” Pumps and panic, hotline glow, Nobody sees me till it overflows. Backlot saint in a reflective coat, Keeping one more dream afloat. You can keep the fireworks, keep the sky— I’m the reason half this city gets through the night. Pumps and panic, radio hot— You don’t say my name till the whole thing stops. Pumps and panic, one more round, Holding up the edge of town. Plastic kingdom, barely sealed— I’m the one out back keeping fantasy real. “West bank stable.” “Copy.” “Fresh water inbound.” “Copy.” “Overflow avoided.” “…Nice.” Diesel hum. Blue light. Gravel grind. Morning always comes for the ones behind.