Just a minute
Mark K November 30th, 2009
I was already in a hurry when I pulled into the gas station. It was one of those discount stations that gets swarmed with customers when the price of gas is especially high. I maneuvered my way over near a row of pumps that was on the correct side for my gas tank and pulled up to the rear pump when the person in front of me finished.
I slid my card through the credit card reader and was about to start pumping gas when the car in front of me pulled out. By now, there was a car waiting behind me, so I decided to cancel my transaction and move up to the forward pump so the person behind me wouldn’t have to wait needlessly.
As I moved up, I was congratulating myself on being such a considerate person and was pleased that the driver behind me gave me a nod and wave of thanks. Then I slid my card through the card reader once again, but this time the pump flashed the message, “See attendant.”
I guessed that the gas station computer system had become suspicious that a person would use a credit card at two different pumps within two minutes and had intervened to block my transaction. Muttering to myself something about no good deed going unpunished, I made my way to the attendant.
I explained the situation to the attendant and he abruptly barked back at me, “Your card is not being accepted. Give it to me.”
I never like handing over my credit card to a gas station clerk. I like the control of handing the whole transaction myself – I’m never quite sure what kinds of mysterious numbers and charges might be added to my bill the moment I walk away. It gives me the same unsettling feeling that I have when I check into a hotel in a foreign country and the desk clerk insists that I leave my passport at the front desk overnight for safekeeping.
Now when I returned to my car, I realized that my whole “being a considerate guy and moving to the front pump” strategy had backfired. My appreciative friend at the rear pump was now well ahead of me in the gas-dispensing process and I still needed to pump my gas and retrieve my credit card. To make matters worse, a line of cars was beginning to form behind her – I was holding up the entire parade.
As I began to pump my gas, out a nowhere appeared a young man with a reddish, bloated face. “Can you help me out?,” he began, “I’m from out of town and I ran out of gas. I need twenty dollars to fill my tank.”
Quickly, I began to evaluate the plausibility of his story – the condition of his face and the fact that there was no car in plain sight raised my suspicions, but I couldn’t really concentrate because I was racing to end my one-car gas station blockade. Moreover, I am not a good multi-tasker and don’t like it when people come up to me and blurt requests without a word of introduction.
“Sorry, I can’t help you right now,” I mumbled.
Not to be deterred, Red Face began to negotiate. “Ten bucks would be good. I can get half a tank.”
Now I was pretty sure that this guy was a scam artist but had decided that I could spare two or three dollars. I just couldn’t do it at that precise moment. I really needed to get the gas pumping. “Okay. Give me just a minute,” I said.
And that’s when he answered – I kid you not about this – “I don’t have a minute,” and turned his flushed face and disappeared. I never did see a car and he just walked away with me calling out something lame like, “Then I can’t help you!”
The teenage kid at the pump across from me and I exchanged bewildered shakings of the head. He must have wondered along with me where this stressed out panhandler might have needed to be in such a hurry that he couldn’t wait 30 seconds for some free cash. Did he have a more cooperative and faster-moving sponsor on the hook at pump number six? Was it time for his break? Was there less than sixty seconds worth of gas left in his tank?
I finished pumping my gas as the driver behind me snaked her way around me to get out of the station and the next car pulled up to take her place. I went inside to pay and resisted the urge to take out my frustrations on the less-than polite attendant.
I got back in my car, started the engine, shook my red-faced head one last time, stomped on the gas, and raced out of the station.
- slowing down
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