Jorge Castillo

I spend most of my days surrounded by the hum of engines and the smell of gasoline. The station is a small, bustling oasis of activity in the midst of a city that feels like it’s constantly on the brink of something. People come and go, filling up their tanks with the near-free fuel that’s one of the few constants in our turbulent lives. I often think about how absurd it is that in a country drowning in poverty, gasoline is the one thing we have in abundance.

I wasn’t always a gas station attendant. Ten years ago, I was a journalist for a well-known magazine in Caracas, Venezuela. Those days feel like another lifetime. Back then, my work meant chasing stories, uncovering truths, and bringing a bit of light into the murky waters of politics and social issues. But the economic crisis changed everything. When hyperinflation hit, my salary couldn’t keep up. Food prices skyrocketed while gasoline remained cheap—an irony that still stings.

Now, at 38, my life revolves around the station. The job is simple but steady. Each day, I greet the regulars, many of whom have become familiar faces. There’s Marta, who works at the bakery down the street and always has a kind word. Or Luis, a taxi driver with a family like mine, who shares his worries and dreams during quick refuels. In these brief encounters, there’s a sense of community, a shared understanding of our struggles.

I think about leaving Venezuela sometimes, about taking my family to a place where the future seems more certain. But my parents are too old and too sick to move, and my three kids need stability, not more upheaval. So I stay. This job at the station keeps food on our table and a roof over our heads, even if just barely.

Hope is a strange thing. Despite everything, I find myself holding on to it. Maybe one day, we’ll learn from our mistakes. Maybe we’ll have leaders who truly care about this country and its people. Until then, I’ll keep doing my part, filling tanks and exchanging smiles, waiting for a better day.