But one thing makes me love this state that I’ve called home my whole life: gas stations. Today the wind chill is in the low twenties or high teens. The sun is shining in the crystal clear blue sky but the hard-blowing wind is quite literally a “harsh reminder” that winter is here, baby. No doubt about that.
Next to the stupid little red light reminding me that my trunk is ajar (that has remained on since late October when that dumb f--k hit my car) is the little orange light. It has a nice glow to it, but is a reminder that it’s time to fuel up my busted ride.
The light had been on last Saturday night when I began my drive to Sea Isle City. I stopped into a Shell station, rolled down the window and said, “Eight dollars of regular, please. Cash.” I let loose an anxious/embarrassed laugh. Eight bucks was all I had in my wallet and I was trying to save myself from a 12 dollar surcharge from Commerce when my checking acct. dips below $100. “I’m going for broke here,” I said and the gas station attendant didn’t respond. Either he can’t really speak English or he just doesn’t feel like talking to some asshole driving a baby blue ’94 Accord with a busted rear end. About 15 seconds later the pump clicked signaling it’d pumped eight dollars worth of 89 octane fuel. I’m ready to roll. “You’re not broke until you move out on your own,” or something like that said the nice man who took my eight dollars. I laughed. (How did he know I still live at home with my parents?)
Today was similar, except two dollars more. I pulled up to a Sunoco and whipped out a crisp 10 dollar bill and followed my request with a “please”. Again, it was only about 15 seconds or so before the pump clicked. I thought about how this old man must be freezing his ass off sitting outside on a day like today. I handed over the bill and said “thank you;” he replied with a sincere “you’re welcome.” I smiled, turned and wished him a simple good day or something polite like that. The nice old man with the grey beard and cheap black gloves wished me the same. He was probably someone’s grandfather, or else he’d probably make a good one. He seemed really nice.
It then occurred to me that this guy, despite his obvious upbringing in another country, could empathize with a guy who’s driving a beat up car and getting 10 dollars of gas when it costs $2.27 a gallon. He probably knows what it’s like to not be able to fill a tank of gas. He probably can imagine a situation such as my own when spending 30 bucks on gas isn’t practical on a particular day. Not that I’m broke on anything, it’s just that I’m trying to be frugal with my money until my next paycheck b/c I tend to spend a lot right away and then just be careful with the rest until the next payday rolls around. I don’t see anything really wrong with it.
And just like the guy at the Shell station, the nice, old Sunoco worker understood a young guy who is coughing up only eight or 10 bucks to put enough gas in their car (that’s certainly seen better days). They seem to be empathetic, like a starving artist who attends an art show to see a bunch of pieces of shit hanging on the walls. They understand situations; good or bad, we’ve had them all whether our art is done with a brush or a buttons that read 89, 91 and 93.
Okay I’m stretching in saying that button on a gas pump are some form of art. And maybe I’m giving these gas station attendants a bit more credit than is due. But it’s amazing how small, seemingly meaningless encounters can prompt a story.
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