Slow gas
How do you feel about putting gas in your car? Have you given it much thought? Going to the gas station seems a necessary evil.
You pull into the gas station as attendants rush out, clean your windshield, pump up your tires, polish your hood and fill your car with the gasoline of your choice. They call you sir, (or madam, as the case may be). You sit in your car, pasha-like, while neatly-dressed attendants minister to your vehicle.
In return, you dispense gratitude in the form of a tip. With a friendly wave you pull onto an empty freeway. And away you go. Is that how it is for you? When the world was just that much slower, you could expect that kind of service. I know, I worked in a gas station, only we called it a petrol station.
I was at the gas station filling up my car yesterday. No longer are friendly employees there to floss your car and ask after your wellbeing. No longer are there employees. The staff is reduced to just one sullen human in a bullet-proof box.
It was a clear case of multitasking. She was on the phone while an irate customer was quizzing her on her knowledge of the ingredients of oil for her car. There was a lot of head shaking and gesturing going on. This was taking some time.
A line was beginning to form—possibly, a line of murderers.
Being a gas-station attendant is a high-risk job. It is close to top of the list of occupations that one is likely to be murdered in. But murder is not the only hazard.
I once pulled into a gas station in rural Tennessee, and a rather bosomy girl was “checking” the pumps. She had a cigarette in hand and you could see the gasoline vapors rising from gas tanks in the humid heat. Perhaps in Tennessee they have employee nonchalant training? But in my part of the world, the sullen customer service is the latest fad.
The exclusive gas station has not yet been invented—but of course it will. A yet to be realized category of fame is gas-station-attendant-to-the-stars, or a personal-gas-pumper (PGP). No status-conscious individual will be without their PGP. As gas prices increase, there will be loan officers at each station to go over your last three years of tax returns to see if you qualify for a loan to fill up.
Testy, is the word I use to describe the general ambiance of my local gas station. Everyone is in a hurry. Everyone wants gas in their car, but doesn’t really want to go to the bother of putting it in. Perhaps a sign over the station would help: Abandon hope all ye who enter here, or Patience shall set you free.
Of course, patience does set you free. The woman who was attempting to communicate with the inhabitant of the bullet-proof box was not doing well. Steam was coming from her ears.
“Maybe if you got off the phone, this would go faster,” she yelled above the din of a group of newly-arrived motorcyclists. They were having a competition to see whose motorbike could make the loudest noise.
More murderers were joining the line behind her. They were starting to finger their weapons.
Miss bullet-proof was shaking her head and saying that it was impossible for her to get off the phone.
By this time, the gas station was ever more popular. Its magnet-like charm was attracting more cars and the lines were growing. I’m sure that even people who didn’t really need a fill-up were joining. You know how it is. When something is popular, more people are attracted. It’s like the person standing in the street looking