Gas Pains
Time was, you could pull into a gas station and be reasonably certain that your brethren in other cars were there to do one thing, pretty much.
Buy gas, that is.
In fact, I remember when you didn't even have to leave your car to fill up.
"Full serve", they call it now.
Back then, it was just "serve" -- one kind.
Sit tight. For here comes Mr. Attendant, striding up to your vehicle.
"Fill it up, regular," my dad would say.
And that's what Mr. Attendant did.
While the gas was pumping, the windshield was being cleaned. Front and back.
Air in the tires was being checked.
If you asked, the hood would be looked under, as well.
Not "full serve."
Just, "serve."
Sometimes, if they were in a really generous mood, the gas stations would thank you for stopping by.
A free set of knives.
Some maps.
And other goodies.
Buying gas now is an ordeal. And not just because of the prices, which, if they were afforded movie ratings, would be NC-17. And inching toward X.
The ordeal part comes when you try to pay.
For no one else, it seems, is going to the gas station to merely purchase gasoline.
We've turned the corner station into mini-Wal-Marts or Meijers.
Or, in the most egregious example, Michigan State Lottery outlets.
The lottery isn't just a matter of asking for a few scratch-offs anymore.
At least, not for the folks I find myself behind in line at the (formerly) gas station.
Insert wistful sigh
The lottery, to them, is mind-boggling numerology.
For one, the lottery people in Lansing have way too many games going on at any given time.
For two, their games are too complicated.
Listening to a seasoned lottery player bark out his (or her) order to the clerk behind the counter gives me a headache.
It's a series of instructions that makes an air traffic controller's frantic tutoring from the ground to a civilian flying a plane whose pilot is unconscious look like child's play.
But the clerks--and I must give them their props--are usually up to the task.
Frankly, I'm not sure whether to be annoyed or amazed by this display.
Naah, I know.
Annoyed. Definitely annoyed.
All I want is my $10 of gas.
I'm at a gas station, after all.
Another escapade is practiced by the smoker.
The smoker never, that I know of, buys gas at a gas station.
Just like the lottery player.
The smoker is there to guide the poor clerk to his or her cancer sticks of choice.
The clerk does far better, usually, with the sophisticated lottery machine than he or she does with cigarette orders.
The desired pack is somewhere behind the clerk, and the smoker has to play a game of "getting hot, getting cold."
Like an Easter egg hunt.
I've been in line when the clerk has literally stepped totally away from the cigarette rack, so he can look at the customer, and try to follow the eyes and hand gestures, in order to find the desired pack.
All I want is some gas.
The smoker or the lottery player never gets behind me, I've noticed. Always it's the other way around.
I see where they have smokers' outlets sprinkled around town. I've gone in there to buy some pipe tobacco on occasion. I wonder why the smokers don't go there more often, instead of intruding on my gasoline purchases.
Yes, I sometimes enjoy a pipe.
Calms me down after a trip to the gas station, sometimes.
Buy gas, that is.
In fact, I remember when you didn't even have to leave your car to fill up.
"Full serve", they call it now.
Back then, it was just "serve" -- one kind.
Sit tight. For here comes Mr. Attendant, striding up to your vehicle.
"Fill it up, regular," my dad would say.
And that's what Mr. Attendant did.
While the gas was pumping, the windshield was being cleaned. Front and back.
Air in the tires was being checked.
If you asked, the hood would be looked under, as well.
Not "full serve."
Just, "serve."
Sometimes, if they were in a really generous mood, the gas stations would thank you for stopping by.
A free set of knives.
Some maps.
And other goodies.
Buying gas now is an ordeal. And not just because of the prices, which, if they were afforded movie ratings, would be NC-17. And inching toward X.
The ordeal part comes when you try to pay.
For no one else, it seems, is going to the gas station to merely purchase gasoline.
We've turned the corner station into mini-Wal-Marts or Meijers.
Or, in the most egregious example, Michigan State Lottery outlets.
The lottery isn't just a matter of asking for a few scratch-offs anymore.
At least, not for the folks I find myself behind in line at the (formerly) gas station.
Insert wistful sigh
The lottery, to them, is mind-boggling numerology.
For one, the lottery people in Lansing have way too many games going on at any given time.
For two, their games are too complicated.
Listening to a seasoned lottery player bark out his (or her) order to the clerk behind the counter gives me a headache.
It's a series of instructions that makes an air traffic controller's frantic tutoring from the ground to a civilian flying a plane whose pilot is unconscious look like child's play.
But the clerks--and I must give them their props--are usually up to the task.
Frankly, I'm not sure whether to be annoyed or amazed by this display.
Naah, I know.
Annoyed. Definitely annoyed.
All I want is my $10 of gas.
I'm at a gas station, after all.
Another escapade is practiced by the smoker.
The smoker never, that I know of, buys gas at a gas station.
Just like the lottery player.
The smoker is there to guide the poor clerk to his or her cancer sticks of choice.
The clerk does far better, usually, with the sophisticated lottery machine than he or she does with cigarette orders.
The desired pack is somewhere behind the clerk, and the smoker has to play a game of "getting hot, getting cold."
Like an Easter egg hunt.
I've been in line when the clerk has literally stepped totally away from the cigarette rack, so he can look at the customer, and try to follow the eyes and hand gestures, in order to find the desired pack.
All I want is some gas.
The smoker or the lottery player never gets behind me, I've noticed. Always it's the other way around.
I see where they have smokers' outlets sprinkled around town. I've gone in there to buy some pipe tobacco on occasion. I wonder why the smokers don't go there more often, instead of intruding on my gasoline purchases.
Yes, I sometimes enjoy a pipe.
Calms me down after a trip to the gas station, sometimes.
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