I love dirty gas station sinks, in the way a kid loves smelling his own farts.
I see them and I’m immediately sucked in. The mold peeking up from the drain’s depths. The inevitable strands of loose hair, oftentimes nestled within the exterior glaze of a small bar of communal soap. The metallic nob, carrying 843 of the world’s deadliest diseases. The rust, the snot nugget, the small lake of spittle.
It’s all right there, waiting for your doesn’t-yet-know-better child to embrace and lather.
I love dirty gas station sinks because they’re everywhere, as American as apple pie and as inevitable as death. They almost mock you. Or, better yet, they call into question so much that we presume to know. You’ve just urinated, for example, which means you held part of your junk with (on most occasions) your dominant hand. Now, task completed, are your hands better served by junk residue, or sink residue? What I mean is, is the next person whose hand you shake better served by your interaction with the sink, or not?
These are things I ponder.