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Old 09-20-2010, 08:47 PM
RaggedOleMan RaggedOleMan is offline
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Join Date: Sep 2010
Location: Tacoma,WA
Posts: 9
A hand full of give me, and a mouth full of much obliged...

Recently, I posted this is other forums. I thought it might fit in this Black Label room, too.


Reading a recent post by someone on another forum, regarding the joys of living in a small town, compelled a recent resentment of mine, back to nurturing status...

The "service stations" as they were called in my youth, always had someone on hand to fill the tank, clean the windshield, check the oil and/or just bs with me and/or my old man for a while, as the tank was filling, or my tire was getting patched... We had a Phillips 66 and a Mobile across from each other in my neighborhood.

I could ask the mechanic on duty for a hand fixing what ever ailed my bike, the chain came off or the tire was flat...I could use the bathroom with a key on a piece of lumber, or a big hunk of metal or something...

After I turned 16 and got my first car, many of us would meet a buddy who worked at the "service station" and bs, tinker with our car(s), talk about the girls we fancied, where the party was at...whatever else adolescents talked about back then.

The gas stations dealt in cash & checks. They had a gazillion fan belts, and exhaust tubing hanging all over the walls, huge tool cabinets with tons of stickers on them and if you opened one up, there was a pin-up girl under the lid to greet you...

Soda's were a dime, and came in a bottle. The service station attendant always had a bottle opener in his jack knife or on his key chain, and a greasy old rag hanging from his back pocket. He knew us by name, drove us out when we were pestering him or his customers, and welcomed us in the cool of the summer evening with a joke, a coke or just flipped us some poop...


Recently I stopped at the gas station where I've been filing my tank for years, to fill up. The pump had a problem with my debit card on this particular evening, and the instructions written on the little screen at the pump, said I had to go see the I did. He may have been American, but he didn't look like me, didn't speak much of my language, and had never taken notice of me in all the times I visited his pumps. I was a stranger to him, though his company had become quite familiar with the digital transfer of funds, from my checking account to his, all these years...but, "I" was a stranger to him...

"The pump says I need to come see you. Evidently it's having a problem processing my debit card." I said after the gentleman finally abandoned his work on the back counter, and came to find out what I wanted.

"How much gas you want?" He said.
I said; "I want to fill it up."
"How much?" He said a second time.
"To the top..." I was still in a good mood at this point.
"How much you want?" He says for the third time.
"I want to fill it." I repeated...
"How much you want..." He said for the fourth time...

Okay, now I'm gettin' ****ed. "I want to fill it up. I don't know how much that will be, I just want to fill it up."
"How much you want?" He says for the last time, as far as I was concerned. I wanted to reach over the counter, rip off his head and poop down his neck! "I come in here 2-3 times a week and fill up, why can't I fill up my tank now?" I said this in a wee bit of an elevated tone.

"How much you want?" God...frickin'...Argghhh....I don't recall exactly what I said at this point, but it was less than cordial. I stormed out in self righteous indignation, uttering all kinds of unpleasant things. Once back at my heep, I tried again to swipe my card, and this worked.

I want to live in a small town. Now. Speaking english is optional, but, giving a sh!t is mandatory of the town folk...
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