I have developed the habit of buying my gas at the Murphy station at the front of the Walmart parking lot. It’s easy to whip in and there’s plenty of pumps so you don’t normally have to wait — not normally.
But I have this other habit of using the same pump every time I gas up, the outside one on the south end. I can’t explain why. I can be stubborn about it. Last week, in no particular hurry, I pulled in behind an SUV at my favorite fueling place there at the south end to wait for a young woman to finish fueling up. After a minute or so she took her hand off the trigger, leaving the spout of the hose in the tank, and opened the back door of the Blazer. “What is she doing?” I asked myself. Then I saw that she was seeing to her children of which she had a flock. I tried to count heads but they were moving around so fast it was hard to tell for sure. I think there were five of them, all under three years old it appeared. I know that sounds unlikely, but I swear that’s the way it looked.
She scolded and swatted, her tight red curls bouncing. It went on for couple of minutes before she went back to putting gas in the car. For a moment I considered asking if I could be of assistance, but from the look on her face I decided that would not be a good idea. Soon she had her car filled and put the hose back in place.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I said to myself. In fact it was rather interesting to see a young mother at work. Moms really do have a tough job. But she wasn’t through yet. Instead of getting in under the wheel and moving out of the way, she opened the hatch at the back and got out a sack. I soon saw that the sack had bananas in it. She took them out and began to peel them and hand them to the children one by one.
“Well, kids have to eat,” I thought, and it was getting on up in the morning.
The lady threw the sack with the banana peels into the trash disposal and I prepared to finally move up into position. But no, she was shaking a finger at her brood, either lecturing or instructing. Then she turned and walked toward the back corner of the cinder block building. She was going to the restroom no doubt. A few minutes later she returned. She looked back at me and smiled as if she had noticed me for the first time, and then got into her car and pulled away. Though I had been held up for a bit, and I thought unnecessarily, I was still in a good mood.
I pulled up to the pump and took the gas card from my billfold. My wife had, at my request, bought it for me a couple of days prior. It always feels good to have a card so as not to have to make that walk. I cleared the print off the screen and took a close look at the slot where the card goes to made sure and get the card right side up. I have trouble with things like that sometimes. I stuck the card in and the lettering on the screen said, “Remove your card.” I did so. Then I reinserted it and it said once more, “Remove your card”. I went through the procedure several more times, turning the card in every position possible before I came to the conclusion that it must be my wife’s fault. She had probably used the same old card having it reinstated over and over until it had become worn out.
I had cash so I slid the card into my shirt pocket, cleared the screen, and pushed the button that says pay the cashier. I put in $25 worth of gas. That pretty well topped it off. I headed to the cashier’s station. There were only two people ahead of me. But the one in the front position was in a gambling mood it seemed. He was discussing, with himself, but out loud, which of the colors or names or numbers or whatever of the cards was usually lucky for him. My good mood was rapidly evaporating.
“If you want to gamble why don’t you go down to the boats,” I suggested.
“Cause I want to gamble right here,” he said. If you’re in a hurry why don’t you buy your gas in El Dorado.”
That didn’t make sense at all. It showed what a brainless moron he was.
“Now I know why some people carry guns,” I mumbled to myself.
“You talkin to me?” the guy said. “No, I was talking about you, moron.” I said the moron part silently.
The guy finally decided which card would make him wealthy, paid up, and walked out, deliberately brushing me as he went by.
The girl next up started shopping. She got chips and a couple of drinks and then inquired about if the deal to get two Hershey products for the price of one was still in effect. “No,” the attendant said. “That went off yesterday.”
The girl reached into her purse to get out money but about that time a person came by me in a mad rush and pushed the girl out of her way. I recognized this rude individual at once. She had tight red bouncy curls. She was in a panic.
“I’m sorry,” she said to the girl that she had run ahead of. Then to the attendant she said, “I forgot to pay for my gas a couple of minutes ago. I was on pump one. I was afraid you’d call the police. You see I got kids and they were cutting up and there was this jerk behind me who looked like he was about to have a stroke. I was nervous and so I just drove off.”
I stood there not saying anything. She was laying it off on me, but my mouth was dry and I couldn’t talk.
When I got home later that day I was focused on the card that hadn’t worked for me at the gas pump. I wasn’t going to blame my wife for anything. However, I did think I should mention it. “You know that gas card you picked up for me,” I said. “Well, it didn’t work.”
“You probably didn’t put it in right” she said, rather smugly.
“How’d I know you were going to say that?” I responded.
I began to tell her all the things that happened. She listened without comment. For some reason that perturbed me. “This card was a big part of my troubles.” I said as I pulled the card from my shirt pocket and threw it on the table.
“You tried this card, huh?”
“I think I just told you that I did.”
“That’s your Atwoods gift card, honey. They don’t work too well for getting gas.”
She looked at me sympathetically. I could tell her expression was phony.
“You’ve had a tough day haven’t you?” she said.