Profile
Photos
Comments
Usually, when I pull up to the gas pump, I’m in a hurry. It’s not that I have something particularly pressing to do. It’s just that pumping gas is a menial labor in my life that infringes on my free time. So I want to dispense with it as quickly as possible.
I have the whole thing orchestrated beforehand in order to dispatch with the entire process as quickly as humanly possible. I pull up to the pump, jump out of the car with credit card in hand, swipe my card…and wait.
The LCD message pad finally flashes the first question: “Credit or Debit?†I hit the proper key, and lay my hand on the nozzle’s handle so that there will be no down time when I am finally allowed to pump fuel.
After a few seconds in the “ready†position, I look up at the message pad.
“Please wait. Authorizing.â€
There is always that little twinge of apprehension that hits me when I see that notice. I mean, what if the mechanical being in front of me refuses my card? What if this freaking cyborg has a deep-seated resentment of humans, and enjoys inflicting angst and pain upon us whenever possible?
When I normally pull into a gas station, it is because I am driving on fumes, and the car will not make it home without gas added to the tank. (Plus, I usually don’t carry enough cash in my pocket to cover the price of a fill-up nowadays. I don’t think Bill Gates carries that much pocket change!)
After all of this ruminating, I look up at the message pad again, in anticipation of being granted mechanical permission to fill my tank.
The wretched thing is smiling down at me, pretending to be oblivious of my impatience. It asks sweetly, “Want a car wash?â€
"God damn it! If I wanted a car wash, I’d go to the car wash! NO!"
Again, the wait…Then, the message pad blinks, seemingly innocently, again. I can feel my pulse increase with the adrenaline rush, knowing that I am on the cusp of pouring the liquid gold into my vehicle.
Instead: “Receipt desired?â€
I hurt my finger because I drill it so hard into the “No†key on the pad.
“Would you like a dozen donuts from our snack bar? Only $6.00?â€
"I’m not freaking hungry!"
“Need oil?
"NO! JUST GIVE ME MY GAS!"
After this, I swear I can see the machine shrug and hear it sigh as the message pad lights up with:
“Oh, all right then! You may begin pumping now, you little peon.â€
So, I pump my gas, top it off a few times after the nozzle clicks off. (I know. I know. But I do it anyway! Maybe those three extra drops that I shake out of the hose will let me drive another half mile on this tank before I am forced to stop and fill up again!)
When the nozzle is replaced, that damned “Thank You!†message must blink for five minutes. That bothers the living hell out of me.
Why?. . . Okay, I’ll tell you why. (If you laugh, so help me, I’ll hit you!)
I don’t know about you, but I don’t trust the blasted machine or the evil-doers who, thanks to countless exposes on television, I am convinced are watching my every move from the shadows, just waiting to pounce and rip off my identity. So, in order to make sure that, after I drive off, nobody else can pick up this nozzle and charge gas to my credit card, I wait for the stupid message pad to flash “Please Press Payment Key†for the next driver, indicating that all vestiges of my transaction with my credit card number attached has dissipated irretrievably into the ether.
Now, I climb back into my car, feeling like a victim of the oil companies and of Big Brother who has just been dragged through an obstacle course. My blood pressure is soaring, my hands are shaking, and I’m muttering semi-coherently to myself. All because I stopped to fill up with gas. AND I go through the same thing with Every fill-up.
It’s not easy being me.
And to think that just two years ago this was a fullnservice station.
I postulated, and still hold fast on the belief is that oil companies are trying to get people to leave at 19.75, leaving 25 cents worth of paid but un-pumped gas in the machine. Simply because it's so GD aggravating.