Opinion

Lippy Machines In The Post-Gas Station Attendant Era

Font Size:

All I want is a tank of gas. Normally I sit in my car and tune in to NPR, not because I love the programming, but pledge drive is in full swing and it’s a guilty pleasure when you have no intention of giving. No need to get all huffy, Corey Flintoff. It’s not like I’ve never given.  But keep in mind that the only NPR swag I’ve ever earned is a charred tote bag that appears to have smothered a grease fire on The Splendid Table. I’m just saying you’re barking up the wrong tree.  Do you think I’m concerned by your disapproval, Peter Sagal?  Wait, wait, don’t tell me.

But tonight there’s a driving rain, and I cannot sit in my car while my tank fills up. I’m outside because the ridges on the pump handle are completely worn down. You don’t have to be a cultural historian to know that once an attendant provided this service. (We’ll call him Phillip.) Then the gas station replaced Phillip with cheaper technology, but that failed and has not been replaced. So I stand in the rain with my hand on the nozzle, doing what Phillip once was paid to do well, then the technology did poorly, and now I do for free.

As the dollars notch higher, I am reminded of how in the cartoons lost wealth was depicted as a stuffed bag of money that sprouted wings and flew off over the horizon. I giggle at the thought and instantly try to suppress, but it’s too late. Middle-aged men shouldn’t giggle unless they are around children, and even then only if not wearing a trench coat. Sure enough, the woman one pump over seems to be trying to position her Nissan Altima between herself and me. With a quick glance I can see that she’s an attractive twenty-something, but I know all too well that my stare mustn’t linger. If it does, she will drop her keys and bend over to pick them up. The minute she does this a rogue breeze will flare up her skirt, leaving me looking like I am ogling her or, worse, that through some dark arts I willed it to happen. I can’t say I blame her, not trusting appearances. The line between men who have healthy relationships with women and the ones who are confident only when speaking online, in their basement and through an avatar, is too fine for her to discern.

Next row over, the guy filling up his vintage motorcycle has tats, lots of tats. Based solely on an eastern religion course I took in college, I think I can translate the one on his neck. However I’m pretty sure that doing so isn’t worth the trip to pound-town I’ll take if I continue to eyeball him. So I just close my eyes, which quickens my hearing, for suddenly I notice “Hold on Loosely is playing. No way that’s a coincidence — well played, corporate risk management, well played. It’s practically an ode to pump safety  – Just hold on loosely, but don’t let go, if you cling too tightly, you’re gonna lose control – and subliminal messaging with 38 Special makes plenty of … wait, have I been singing  I open my eyes and shoot a glance at the twenty-something, who now looks ready to drive off in her Altima with the hose still attached. I’ve definitely been singing.

With a click the pump says our transaction is complete. For a moment, I consider becoming one of those guys who bicycles to and from work, but just for a moment. After all, you can’t just start doing that one day. There must be a period of discernment where you consciously do things like listen to more Todd Rundgren. Plus if I dressed in business attire, I would sweat through my clothes and, far worse, invite some disgruntled commuter to trade paint with me. On the other hand, if I dressed in more casual biking attire I’d look like a sweaty Doug Henning when I got to the office. Nobody respects that guy. I’ll just keep driving.

And that’s when this lippy machine starts in with the rude questions. Do you want a car wash? Excuse me? You just hoovered my wallet, and this is what you’re asking me? Talk about graceless timing  It’s like being solicited to volunteer as aggressor at a women’s self-defense class moments after getting hit violently in the groin. I can’t help but recall that Phillip never pushed the car wash on me. He even shot straight about how long one of those hot dogs had been in the rotisserie. And what on earth is a touchless car wash, anyway? Who besides Gandalf from Lord of the Rings could pull that off? Let’s not beat around the bush here, gas pump, we both know the question you want to ask me. Do I wish I took the shot at the end of regulation in state finals instead of dishing the basketball to my boss Jeff “Buzzer Beater” Tewksbury? What do you think?

I try to end my conversation with the pump, but it’s not as easy as in speed dating, where the minute it’s clear sparks aren’t flying a woman can talk about her ten cats at home, or a man can say “you look beautiful” in Klingon. No, here breaking up is hard to do. To respond to the talking pump, my choices are Yes and No, Thank You. Not the balanced Yes and No, or my preference Yes, If It’s Free and No, That’s Why I Have Kids, but Yes and No, Thank You. Mandatory gratitude, is it? Who programmed this thing, Emily Post? Now I’m clearly distracted because I see in my peripheral vision a young, squared away guy in full desert khaki where tats-man used to be, and this ensues:

Me: Thank you for your service.

Khaki Guy: I do it for the orangutans.

Well shoot. He’s not active duty military, he’s a zookeeper. A rookie mistake I’d never have made if that cheeky machine hadn’t been yammering on and on. And we’re not done yet, me and the pump. Do I have a reward points card? Sweet Aunt Irene, please just give me my tank of gas! By now I am more rain-soaked than Andy Dufresne after tunneling out of Shawshank Prison. I’ve never answered yes to that last question, so I don’t know if anything follows, but I swear if the next prompt were Good. Now, would you like to use that reward points card? the fur would fly.

By the time the pump asks its final question – would you like a receipt? – I am on the cold, wet ground, crying and rocking in the fetal position. Man, do I miss Phillip.