Take Beano, There'll Beano Gas
On the way home tonight, my husband and I had to stop at the gas station to fill up the tank. While I was waiting in the car, a man walked up to the pump in front of our car with a gas can and proceeded to fill it up and I was suddenly transported back in time...
It was 1989, the summer before my junior year in high school. I lived in Canisteo New York, home of the World Famous Living Sign. (It's in the upper right section of the picture.) My father, sister, and step-brother were out for the day and my step-mother asked me to go to her brother-in-law's gas station and fill up the gas can for the lawn mower. It was a fairly warm day, the sun was shining and there was a light breeze. I grabbed the ancient gas can and headed for the gas station. It was one of those old metal cans with an actual external spout that's about the same size as a gas pump's nozzle (this will be important later). My mind wanders as I walk and of course I'm pissed that I have to walk to the gas station to fill this stupid gas tank. I mean, I've never even pumped gas before. I have a dollar in my pocket to pay for it and I'd much rather bypass the station all together and head downtown and get something at the only 'convenience store' around for about 10 or 15 miles.
I get to the gas station and poke my head in the door. Dave, my step-mom's brother-in-law, was sitting behind the desk of the small room that served as the cash register area for the gas station/service station that her sister and brother-in-law owned.
"Brenda sent me over to fill the gas tank. Here's a dollar."
"Ok, go ahead." He took my dollar without looking up and went back to reading whatever out of date mechanic magazine he'd found earlier in the drawer.
I turned around and walked to the pump. Putting the gas can down on the ground, I looked at the foreign contraption in front of me. It was one of those gas pumps that had the reels for numbers instead of the fancy digital, pay at the pump ones littering stations today. I really had no idea what I was doing. My father would not let me take driver's ed with my friends the previous year, so I had never even been near the driver's side of a car, let alone a pump before.
I looked down at the red can sitting on the ground. The can was probably as old as the pump and covered with rust and other varied corrosive agents. I attempted to discern where an opening might be in order to fill it and decided that the spout was the only available orifice. I lifted the pump and turned back toward the 'office'. Dave had apparently become interested in the scene unfolding outside his little gold mine and was watching me over the top of the faded magazine. He interpreted the confused look on my face correctly and I watched as he mimed the proper way to turn on the pump in order to complete my task.
When he was finished, I turned back to the pump, bent slightly to get the nozzle as close as possible to being inside the spout on the can with my left hand, and flipped the switchy thingie with my right. I squeezed the trigger on the pump...and got showered in gasoline.
I looked up to see a car pulling up. Out stepped Erik. A senior. A football player. A blonde (with a mullet-it was '89 give the guy a break). And beautiful. I straightened up and took a quick inventory. $.75 worth of gas, with probably about $.06 actually in the can. The rest was, yup all over me. The front of my shirt was drenched. The front of my shorts were drenched. The fronts of my naked and now quivering legs...drenched. It had started to seep into my socks as I looked up again and watched as Erik bent into his car and withdrew a pair of standard-issue-back-water-hick-town-good-'ol-boy work gloves.
He shook his head, causing his wavy locks to tumble over his forehead and into his eyes. Walking toward me, he smiled and said "Need some help?"
"Yes, actually...if you could point me to the nearest hole in the earth, I will gladly lay down and die. Or a rock. A rock would be good too. I'm sure I could manage to fit under it."
"Um, well I've never pumped gas before."
He put on the gloves and bent over and unscrewed the now glaringly obvious cap in the top of the gas can, inserted the nozzle into the opening and filled it. "There you go." He was even nice enough to replace the cap, hang up the nozzle, and wipe the can off with a rag he got out of his car.
I thanked him profusely and walked home in a mortified daze. My step-mom had to wash my clothes probably half a dozen times (shoes included) but the smell never really left. Every time I wore the shirt I was reminded of the incident with painfully brilliant clarity. I have no idea if she ever paid for the gas I spilled, but of course at the end of it, my father had taken the balance of the bill out of my psyche.
I think I was over charged.
It was 1989, the summer before my junior year in high school. I lived in Canisteo New York, home of the World Famous Living Sign. (It's in the upper right section of the picture.) My father, sister, and step-brother were out for the day and my step-mother asked me to go to her brother-in-law's gas station and fill up the gas can for the lawn mower. It was a fairly warm day, the sun was shining and there was a light breeze. I grabbed the ancient gas can and headed for the gas station. It was one of those old metal cans with an actual external spout that's about the same size as a gas pump's nozzle (this will be important later). My mind wanders as I walk and of course I'm pissed that I have to walk to the gas station to fill this stupid gas tank. I mean, I've never even pumped gas before. I have a dollar in my pocket to pay for it and I'd much rather bypass the station all together and head downtown and get something at the only 'convenience store' around for about 10 or 15 miles.
I get to the gas station and poke my head in the door. Dave, my step-mom's brother-in-law, was sitting behind the desk of the small room that served as the cash register area for the gas station/service station that her sister and brother-in-law owned.
"Brenda sent me over to fill the gas tank. Here's a dollar."
"Ok, go ahead." He took my dollar without looking up and went back to reading whatever out of date mechanic magazine he'd found earlier in the drawer.
I turned around and walked to the pump. Putting the gas can down on the ground, I looked at the foreign contraption in front of me. It was one of those gas pumps that had the reels for numbers instead of the fancy digital, pay at the pump ones littering stations today. I really had no idea what I was doing. My father would not let me take driver's ed with my friends the previous year, so I had never even been near the driver's side of a car, let alone a pump before.
I looked down at the red can sitting on the ground. The can was probably as old as the pump and covered with rust and other varied corrosive agents. I attempted to discern where an opening might be in order to fill it and decided that the spout was the only available orifice. I lifted the pump and turned back toward the 'office'. Dave had apparently become interested in the scene unfolding outside his little gold mine and was watching me over the top of the faded magazine. He interpreted the confused look on my face correctly and I watched as he mimed the proper way to turn on the pump in order to complete my task.
When he was finished, I turned back to the pump, bent slightly to get the nozzle as close as possible to being inside the spout on the can with my left hand, and flipped the switchy thingie with my right. I squeezed the trigger on the pump...and got showered in gasoline.
I looked up to see a car pulling up. Out stepped Erik. A senior. A football player. A blonde (with a mullet-it was '89 give the guy a break). And beautiful. I straightened up and took a quick inventory. $.75 worth of gas, with probably about $.06 actually in the can. The rest was, yup all over me. The front of my shirt was drenched. The front of my shorts were drenched. The fronts of my naked and now quivering legs...drenched. It had started to seep into my socks as I looked up again and watched as Erik bent into his car and withdrew a pair of standard-issue-back-water-hick-town-good-'ol-boy work gloves.
He shook his head, causing his wavy locks to tumble over his forehead and into his eyes. Walking toward me, he smiled and said "Need some help?"
"Yes, actually...if you could point me to the nearest hole in the earth, I will gladly lay down and die. Or a rock. A rock would be good too. I'm sure I could manage to fit under it."
"Um, well I've never pumped gas before."
He put on the gloves and bent over and unscrewed the now glaringly obvious cap in the top of the gas can, inserted the nozzle into the opening and filled it. "There you go." He was even nice enough to replace the cap, hang up the nozzle, and wipe the can off with a rag he got out of his car.
I thanked him profusely and walked home in a mortified daze. My step-mom had to wash my clothes probably half a dozen times (shoes included) but the smell never really left. Every time I wore the shirt I was reminded of the incident with painfully brilliant clarity. I have no idea if she ever paid for the gas I spilled, but of course at the end of it, my father had taken the balance of the bill out of my psyche.
I think I was over charged.