Piracy at the Pump
Today, many participate in two Great American Pastimes: comparing gas prices and despairing over gas prices. When I want to gripe, and sunny, perfect weather fails to cooperate with my bad mood, bashing gas prices works every time-whether they fluctuate up or down.Say what? Don't we want prices to drop? Not necessarily. If you and I have just filled our tanks, we want prices to leap higher than a jumping bean on steroids: Ha! We filled up just in time! Too often, however, we find the convenience store clerk upped the price 30 cents per gallon while we were using the onsite facilities.
Economic experts make such a big deal about demographics, political climates and the law of supply and demand. I do think they're right about that last one, though. Those who supply the gas can demand whatever they want.
Most of us continue to exchange hot tips as if stations were speakeasies. If it takes every drop of gas in our tanks, we will search until we find gas two cents cheaper.
One day as I prowled and growled around Plymouth looking for the best deal, childhood memories of gas stations overtook my thoughts. "Ding-ding!" In the 1960s, the gas station bell always greeted our big yellow station wagon as we pulled in-heavenly music to the ears of five bladder-desperate kids counting the miles since our father's last pit stop. While gas station restrooms didn't rate a 10, they surely beat a clandestine tree session along the roadside. Back then, stations seemed so friendly. Sometimes inflated green dinosaurs bobbed and smiled at us above the pumps. As a child, I liked the odd, heady fragrance of gasoline. I watched little numbers on the pump s-l-o-w-l-y turn as the big car sucked in fuel like cherry Coke through a straw. Likable uniformed men with strong, greasy hands not only pumped the gas, they washed squishy bugs from our windshield and checked our oil. When something broke, they pulled out manly clanky tools and fixed it. Attendants carried cool metal coin dispensers and wads of dollars in heavy leather wallets hanging from their belts. I thought they were rich, since Dad paid them 25.9 cents a gallon. Besides, they gave away free road maps and pretty drinking glasses at Christmas.
Alas, that was long ago. As I drove past several stations near my home, I winced. More than three dollars a gallon! And they probably didn't give away free toilet paper, let alone drinking glasses. I decided to check another station where I had posted earlier successes. Cheap gas at last! $2.90 per gallon! I pulled in, ducking NASCAR-style traffic, and grabbed a nozzle. The digital numbers on the pump moved so fast they looked like Sanskrit. Finished! I screwed on the gas cap and headed out quickly so the next customer could take out a second mortgage. No friendly "ding-ding" goodbye as I left the station. Too bad gas stations weren't the way they used to be.
On the way home I passed higher prices and savored the self-satisfaction that made my quest worth it. My smugness ended when I walked in the door.
"Did you pay for your gas?" My husband nailed me with the steely smile he reserves for ornery kids and Purdue fans. "Of course, I . . . uh. . . ." Of course, I hadn't.
"The police called." My beloved didn't look inclined to post my bail. "The lady behind you took your license number. You'd better go right back and pay."
I flew out the door before he finished his sentence. As I drove, I wondered if they put gas thieves in solitary confinement. I parked and peered around the lot. What if my pastor saw them take me away in shackles? Fortunately, nobody familiar looked my way. I slithered toward the door like a repentant snake.
"There you are!" The manager, who had waited on me before, burst into giggles. "When the cops called, I told them you just forgot."
I poured out my thanks and handed her my credit card. I signed my guilty name, then sneaked out to the car and left, still looking for helicopters overhead. Again, I heard no friendly dings goodbye as I would have 40 years ago. But I vowed to return soon. This kind station manager didn't need a ding-ding to take good care of this ding-dong.
Plus, her gasoline was a real steal.
Copyright 2007 Rachael Phillips