Full Service

                                         

                                                                      

        I guess I am a full service person.

         I thought I had gotten over my fear of self service gasoline stations. After all, it has been years since I splattered gasoline over the car or myself. I know now that I must never to try to ’top off’.  This must be a guy thing or just beyond me; I can never seem to get a nice round number.

         I haven’t gotten the credit card stuck in the slot for a long time either.

         Our latest car has a nice little chain that keeps the gas cap permanently attached, so I don’t leave it on the roof of the car anymore.

         And I really have come to terms with the issue of self service as a way for the gasoline companies to save labor costs by shifting the labor off onto me.

         I don’t drive endlessly in search of full service stations anymore either.

         And yet it still doesn’t always go well.

         Take this weekend in Cold Spring. Driving with my two grandsons, I realized I really needed to fill up the tank of my 2002 Mazda Protégé - that old fashioned car, as grandson Jamie calls it. The last car without automatic power windows, according to him. I think he is, as usual, correct about this.

         Anyway, I needed gas and without even hesitating I pulled into a station and went straight for the self service pumps. I ordered - or to be truthful, I begged - the boys ages 3 and 6 not to fight while I filled the tank.

         I pushed the correct lever to open the gas tank after popping the trunk only once, which was OK since my passengers thought this was funny. I turned off the engine and left ”Car Talk” on, who knows why, because I couldn’t hear it anyway.

         I injected the credit car with the little black thing facing in the required direction.  I typed my zip code and entered my secret code.

         “No, no, no!” the machine said. “See the cashier.”

         My card was rejected. I was being sent to the gasoline station version of the Principal’s office.

         I got both boys out of the car, ignoring the large SUV behind me in line waiting to gas up. I was on the way to the cashier ready to confess to anything during interrogation, when I realized I had used my credit card and entered the code for the debit card. So I could just re-do the process correctly.

         We went inside anyway to pick up a few snacks since neither Nick nor Jamie are ignorant of the law requiring grandparents to buy treats in any store selling same.

         Back to car, we politely ignored two additional cars behind SUV. I didn’t know so many people needed gas in the country at 10:30 on a Saturday morning.

         I reinstalled the boys, who were being wonderfully cooperative.

         Asked them to eat quickly so I could dispose of the evidence of snacks before returning to the sugar police - AKA their parents.

         I re-entered the card and pushed credit not debit and read "Begin pumping.” Well, that was encouraging.

         I removed the nozzle and placed it in the correct receptacle but the little numbers didn't start going so I jiggled it and went back to look at flashing lights and re-pushed the number for least expensive gas.

         Jamie suggested I kick the pump like his Daddy does. Great advice. It began working.

         Now I am cooking. Got the gas, replaced gas cap and cover, even got the receipt. Into the car I jumped, checked on seat belts, checked kids who weren’t even fighting and started engine with the correct key and sped away.

         I drove for two whole blocks feeling truly masterful before I recalled this feeling usually spelled disaster and vaguely remembered not replacing credit card in my wallet. It wasn’t in my pocket or on the seat.

         I pulled into the driveway of a nice lady who gaily waved at us for the entire time it took me to go through the contents of purse. No credit card.

         Drove back to station, sighted credit card lying under that same SUV, crawled under while apologizing profusely, refusing both Jamie and SUV driver’s offers to go under the car for me.

         I was in need of a bit of help to crawl back out, but without damage to knees or dignity, I went on my way.

         I think I saw the SUV driver wave goodbye.

         Friendly people here in Cold Spring.

         Jamie and Nick finished their berry blasters, which unfortunately made their tongues blue. So I gave up on the idea of concealing the crime.

         “Well boys” I said,” We got through that OK, right?”

         “Yeah, grandma, but maybe the next time you need gas you should just go to one of the stations with guys to help you.”

         That means full service, I think.