Can we talk about
gasoline? When I was a kid, there were
two kinds of gasoline that my father put in our car – regular, or regular that
he pumped himself. Oh yes, this was a
special money saving aspect of the gas station back then. Gas was a couple cents cheaper if you did it
yourself. However, there was still
always the option of letting the gas station attendant do it. Daddy would pump the gas on trips to the
hardware store or lumberyard, but if, for example, we were heading out to Long
Island to my grandparent’s for Thanksgiving, he let the attendant do it.
These men
fascinated me. When we drove into the
station, the car would roll over the long, black air hose, dinging the bell
somewhere in the repair bay, and we would sit and wait for the man in the grimy
uniform (with a name like Bob or Sam embroidered on the left breast pocket) to
come loping across to our car.
“Filler up?” he’d
ask, picking something unknown from his perpetually blackened fingernails.
“Yes, with regular”
Daddy would answer. What did we care
about unleaded gas – we were driving a Volkswagen bus – hardly a high-performance
car, but one that fit all seven family members with six of them getting window
seats.
When Sam (or Bob)
had checked the oil, washed the windows, and topped off the tank, Daddy would
hand him a credit card, and Sam (or Bob) would disappear into the depths of the
gas station, and we would wait for him to return with a little plastic tray
with the charge card and several pieces of tissue paper all held together. As
he’d pass the tray through the window, I could see the creases in his skin were
filled with grease as black as that in his fingernails. Daddy would sign the
papers, rip one off and keep it, and thank Bob or Sam who would look puzzled
for a minute, then say, “Oh, no, this is just Sam’s shirt – I’m Tommy.”
Where, oh, where
are Bob (or Sam or Tommy)? How I long to
see one of them with their grimy hands, as I pull into a gas station, dressed
for the theatre, wearing my expensive perfume and velvet skirt. But no, Sam or Bob or Tommy has departed
along with the other heroes of my childhood, Captain Kangaroo and Mr.
Rogers. So, after pumping the gas, and
washing the windows, I return to my car, no longer smelling of “Obsession” or “White Shoulders” but of
unleaded gasoline and windshield washer fluid.
I miss you Sam, Bob…
