BP

About this location

A few stories people tell about this place

1. At BP, a neighborhood gas station in Queens, every morning around dawn, a regular would arrive on his bicycle. He’d push aside the newspaper rack and pull out an old tin box. Inside were handwritten notes, each one addressed to someone different—neighbors, friends, even strangers. No one knew where they came from or why he left them. One day, a delivery driver arrived with a huge crate of donuts. Curious, he asked what the notes meant. The regular whispered, ‘Just leave them here.’ Turned out, each note was a secret recipe request! Now, every morning, the aroma of freshly baked goods wafts through the neighborhood.

2. At BP, an old gas station in downtown Chicago, during early autumn evenings when fog rolls through the streets, customers swear they see a shadowy figure filling up cars with invisible gasoline. One night, a delivery driver noticed the ghostly attendant and asked for directions to the nearest liquor store. The spirit pointed vaguely into the mist, muttering something about ‘turn left where it smells like bourbon.’ The driver found himself laughing so hard he almost forgot his route, but eventually managed to deliver the goods on time—just barely.

3. At BP, a small gas station in New Orleans' French Quarter, late one night after Mardi Gras celebrations, a delivery driver swore he saw a ghostly figure filling up cars with invisible gas. The next morning, when a regular customer asked why his tank was full despite no purchase being made, the manager shrugged and said, ‘Must’ve been that ghost again.’ Everyone just laughed it off—until they realized their own tanks were mysteriously topped up too. Turns out, the ghost had an excellent sense of humor, filling everyone’s cars for free on nights when traffic was light.

4. At BP, a small gas station in San Francisco's Mission District, late one foggy night, a delivery driver noticed something odd. The neon sign above the pumps flickered on and off in time with the foghorn from the nearby bay. Curious, he approached the counter, only to see a grizzled old man wiping down the till. ‘That’s no ordinary sign,’ whispered the neighbor, adjusting his cap. ‘It syncs up with the foghorn every twenty minutes.’ A regular passing by chimed in: ‘Must be why they call it “Bay Pumps”!’