it's smack dab in the middle of the entrance to the gas station, requiring everyone entering the station to squeeze by it on the way in and out. after paying for our gas, i asked the attendant how the car came to be so mangled.
"trucks keep running it over," she replied, matter of factly.
"you're kidding...? you mean right here in the driveway, they run it over? or it was run over on the road, and so now you just use it to hold the sign?"
"nope," she said. the resignation in her voice was acute. "right there in the driveway. every couple of nights. it's like it's not even there. what can you do?"
move back to civilization, i thought, but didn't say. different approach to assertiveness there in the Allegheny's, it seems. new york city folk were positively meek, by comparison. needless to say, we were very deferential to the truckers the rest of our travels.