Full Service

I was driving through the tree-lined streets of San Marino when I realized I was driving on fumes. I pulled into the first gas station I saw, a former Union 76 that had been whitewashed and now had someone’s name on it. Great, I thought, it’s one of those generic gas stations where they probably cut their gas with water. But whether it was the crappiest sludge in L.A. or not, I needed fuel right then and there.

So I pulled up to the pump and got of my car, only to see a man in a black sweatshirt standing beside my car’s gas tank.

“Fill ‘er up or how much do you want?” he said.

I stared at him dumbfounded. Transient who wants to pump my gas for a tip? I thought. But he didn’t look like a transient. His clothes were clean and he was freshly shaved, and it was San Marino after all. I looked at the gas pump and noticed there was no slot for a credit card or numbered keypad. About the time he asked me how much again, I saw the collared shirt beneath his sweatshirt and realized he was a gas station attendant.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I did not realize I was in full service.” There was a .40 cent difference between self- and full-service.

I turned to open my car door, when he said, “No I’ll fill it up for that price,” and he pointed to a big white and blue sign on the street corner that listed the self-service price. I said are you sure? He said yeah. (I know, lame question on my part.)

So he stuck in the pump and walked up to a Mercedes parked in front of me that he had just serviced. He handed the driver a blue plastic clipboard with a credit card stuck in the top, waited for her to sign, then returned to his little booth as the car drove away.

Hmmm. Interesting.

Then a black Suburban pulled up across from me. The attendant walked up to the driver’s door as a middle-aged woman opened it to get out. A blankness came over her face, then a clenched jaw, then a confused acceptance that he wasn’t going to mug her, as he explained he was going to pump her gas—a sequence of expressions that had probably mimicked my own.

Mind you, this whole time I had been standing outside my car unsure what to do with myself. I didn’t feel like getting in my hot car and just sitting there. It seemed foolish. Although looking back, it probably looked more foolish standing beside my door watching a gas station attendant make his rounds.

When my gas pump dinged, the attendant came over, topped it off, and asked for my credit card. At this point, all the wonderful horror stories and warnings of stolen credit card numbers came rushing through my head. Don’t let your credit card leave your sight, much less your possession. Did he have one of those little copiers over there, so he could make a duplicate of my card? Was he planning a trip to Vegas?

After someone had used one my credit cards for an extravagant trip to Vegas, I’d been extremely vigilant on where my cards went. But I was stuck. I didn’t have any cash and I had to pay somehow, so with a sense of dread, I handed over my card.

He came back a minute later, my card stick sticking out of the little plastic tray with a receipt to sign: just how it was done when I was a kid. At this point, I thought, hey, this is kinda cool.

I said thanks and was on my way. Although, I was left wondering if my card was about to fund someone else’s trip to Vegas, or if I just had a very nice unexpected experience. I’ll wait until my next credit card statement to see if I’ll visit that gas station again.