Mel took my car to work yesterday because her car was on E. She returned home from her daily trek to Fishers and tells me, nonchalantly, “The light’s on on your gas guage.” I bet it is. On our way to Target on US 31, Mel suggested we go down National and stop at the Village Pantry to get gas. And, oh, how she was punished.
She decides that she’ll pump. It’s the least she can do, right? And then she realizes it’s not pay-at-the-pump, and she must “interface” with the attendant. (Her word, not mine.) It gets better.
She leaves him her credit card and tells him she wants to fill up. Picture me thinking of all the things he’s going to buy on our Chase card later that night on the Internet. She trots back to the pump and plunges the nozzle into my car. She pushes buttons, flips levers, and squeezes handles to no avail. The pump won’t pump, despite her plunging, pushing, flipping, and squeezing. She’s hot.
She stomps into the store. The guy suggests that she prepay $25 because that’s probably all we’ll need anyway. Has this guy not seen the price of gas lately? Hello? He works at a gas station. She goes back to the pump where she once again pushes, flips, and flips again, and squeezes. Finally. Once she’s convinced that fuel is flowing, she jumps back in the car. Picture me hoping that she doesn’t build up enough static elictricity to catch herself on fire when she touches the fuel nozzle.
It stops. At $25. “Goddaammitt!” Since we had almost three-quarters of a tank, I told her to cut her losses. She went to retrieve her card, and the attendant went on and on about drive-offs and what a bunch of cheap-asses the Marsh family are to work for.
Newflash! I don’t care about all that dumb shit. It’s fucking cold, and I want to fill up my gas tank and get on down the road. If Marsh is disabling pay-at-the-pump over a few drive-offs, they’ll be out of business soon. Nobody wants to go through all this hassle just to get fuel. I’ll fucking walk first, and the godammed Marsh family can kiss my ass.