Interstate 15 (Creative Commons)

The drive from Las Vegas to Los Angeles is roughly 265 miles, point to point, with gas stations littered along the busy highway.

To travelers, pit stops are brief necessities, one they are eager to get to but will hastily leave, with little thought given to the person behind the counter who asks “How is your day is going?” or the woman who helps with the broken pump. They will remain while the visitors continue on to another, more exotic destination.

The desert sun bears down on the congested Interstate 15. It’s late Sunday morning and the north route that leads to Las Vegas remains relatively empty, where as the traffic heading south is stop-and-go with sleeping, hung-over passengers and agitated designated drivers who most likely ended up at the wheel due to a lost bet. The traffic crawls on, crowded with people hoping to forgetting their weekend of drinking, drugs and debauchery, only stopping briefly for the occasional road-side vomit, fast-food fix or gas refill.

Baker, CA (Interstate 15): 177 miles to Los Angeles

Home to the world’s largest thermometer, Baker materializes out of the desert in a valley surrounded by rocky, volcanic ranges. It is a classic pit stop for Vegas-goers. The town stretches for about three miles and is equipped with all the road trip necessities: Jack in the Box, Burger King, McDonald’s and a Valero gas station.

Cars roll up beside vacant pumps and quench their empty tanks, while people dash inside the station to relieve their full bladders. In their haste, customers may not even notice the small, middle-aged woman from India with long gray hair wearing a red Valero shirt.

For Nono Khosa this particular Valero station is home. She has been the manager of the station for seven years and a Baker resident since 2002. Originally from Chandigarh, India, Khosa says the remote town feels like home. She followed her family to the United States after receiving a long awaited green card through their sponsorship. Khosa lives alone in Baker, while the rest of her family is spread across the U.S.; and her son is in the Peace Corps, in Ghana.

Most of the station’s business comes from Vegas-goers, with numbers peaking on weekends, holidays and during summer. But with the Vegas crowd comes crazy baggage.

“We get a lot of Vegas people coming through here,” she says. “Just this morning we had to kick someone out because they were too drunk.”

A 20-something guy reaches into the refrigerator at the back of the store and pulls out a beer and stumbles backwards, catching himself before colliding with a shelf of potato chips.

“Vegas,” he yells across the store. Khosa rolls her eyes.

Security is always a big concern for employees working at a gas station in a remote area beside an open highway, but according to Khosa in the seven years she’s worked there, there has only been one robbery.

“It was around 4 a.m., a masked man with a gun came in a asked for the money,” she explains.

The Valero training program teaches employees to hand over the money in any kind of security risk situation, especially considering this particular station has an open counter with no bullet proof gas to separate the employee from the aggressor.

“So we gave it to them and they left,” she says.

An impatient driver may not recognize the developments made in Baker over time, but Khosa, when Valero underwent renovations a few years ago, proudly supervised its progress.

“This place is my baby,” she explains with a proud smile. “I’ve watched it grow.”

People pile back into their cars and speed away from the station. But while they disappear into the horizon Khosa will stay in Baker behind her counter. Another pit stop left behind.

Barstow, CA (Interstate 15): 115 miles to Los Angeles

A small Chevron gas station teeters on the edge of the quiet town. Weary travelers unbuckle their seat belts and tumble out their car doors, stretching and yawning in fresh air. Empty diners, fast food and rival gas stations surround the Chevron, and the inside of the store is big enough to fit only a handful of customers.

A quiet girl with brown hair tied tightly back stands cautiously behind the counter. Here too there is no protection glass.

Betty Flores, a 24-year-old Los Angeles native, has been working at the Chevron station in Barstow for only seven months and has lived in the town for a little less than a year. She works eight-hour shifts at minimum wage and says the lengthy hours mean she gets to witness an interesting range of characters.

“You get a little bit of everything, people who talk to themselves are the scariest. You know, the bums?” she says.

A man in a long, khaki trench coat with white scruffy hair walks into the store and takes a bottle of water out of the refrigerator. Flores eyes sharpen, following him around the store.

“I came here [Barstow] because the rent’s cheaper, but I don’t like working here,” she added, still watching the man.

As the sun sinks lower in the sky, travelers purchase their beverage of choice and sugar-hit for the road and jump back into their cars. Flores quietly watches the cars speed away. Another pit stop left behind.

Ontario, CA (Interstate 10): 37 miles to Los Angeles.

The sky glows with a fierce orange haze as the road approaches the Los Angeles skyline. For passengers who can’t hold their bladders for the final hour of their journey a Mobil becomes the last bathroom stop of the trip.

Maher, a 40-year-old Egyptian clerk, stands behind his counter protected by bullet proof glass, only sliding the window open to help a customer. Next to him is his colleague, Antony, who stares suspiciously as people approach the window. Neither of them is comfortable with sharing their last names, and it is no wonder with the number of robberies both men have confronted.

“I have had two here,” Maher recalls. “One time, a man put paper in front of me that read ‘Put money in bag.’ I pretended not to understand, but he got scared when another customer came in and left before I even pushed the security button.”

He points to a small gray button behind the counter.

“Don’t show them that,” exclaimed Antony.

Maher ignores him and continues welcoming customers with a tired smile – a small effort to hide his disillusionment.

“I don’t like working in a gas station, but I have no choice,” Maher says.

In Egypt, Maher earned a bachelors degree in engineering, and moved to the U.S. with the intention of getting his masters. But after three years of living in California and applying to several different colleges, Maher is still waiting to be accepted.

“They say my English is not good enough,” he explains.

Maher works eight-hour shifts everyday at the Mobil to support his wife and three children: Two daughters who are 8-and 6-years-old and a 5-year-old son. But working also conflicts with his collegiate pursuits.

“I have a meeting with a guidance counselor this week, but I can’t go because of work,” Maher says, raising his hands in frustration.

Twilight casts heavy shadows across the highway and the hungover travelers have to only drive the last leg of their journey before they are home. Yet behind them they will leave a trail of people and places with countless untold stories perpetually whizzed by.

Another pit stop left behind.

Reach Sophie here.