Let me start out by saying that in the State of New Jersey, it is illegal to pump yer own gas. No, really. I’m not joking. We have gas station attendants who do it for you. I realize that’s a foreign concept to some, but for me, doing it myself is just as strange. And, the way things have worked out in my life, I’ve never had to pump my own. There. I said it.
Before I left for CGOA (in New Hampshire) on Tuesday, I asked him to show me how (I know several of you are chuckling hard) but I forgot to follow through on it. I just didn’t want to look like I was as clueless as I was – and dammit, give me credit for wanting to avoid that! As well, I know in some states you have to go into the store and pay first, other places you pay at the pump. How’s a Jersey girl ta know?
Well, on Saturday afternoon I began the long drive home. It had taken four hours to get there – lead footin’ it all the way – and I was suspecting it would be a tad longer, since I was leaving on a weekend afternoon. I had gotten as far as Connecticut when I decided to find a gas station. Lar gave me his GPS, so I quickly located one about five minutes away.
I pulled up to the Sunoco station where there were four pumps and slowly got out, unsure of what to do. I looked over and another young women about my age pulled up to the second pump and started filling up. Hoping to get a clue, I glanced over. She was too far away. I got out and prepared to fill’er up.
Inner dialog: Oh, this is a ‘pay at the pump’ kind and should be easy
Card swiped (Waiting).
Credit? Yes.
Receipt? Yes. Why are they asking for a receipt already? It’s weird that they aren’t asking me what kind of gas I want. Why are there no options? Oh well. Better get going before I look dumb standing here.
Nozzle inserted into fuel tank. Huh. (pause) It doesn’t exactly fit. Why is it hanging out half way? Is this normal? Can’t be. Sh-tttt. Errr, why am I getting gas all over my hand?
Ten seconds later: Something’s wrong.
Help button pushed. No one comes. Staring at convenience store. Still no one. Why the hell is that man (at the other tank) starring at me? Did I wake up with a ‘Byte Me. I’m from Jersey’ tattoo on my forehead?
Another glance at the pump, revealing 4 gallons pumped at $12.04, and then back to the Korean man donning the wifebeater. Would you like to have a staring contest? You’ll lose!
Young Brunette: “Did you pump it too?” I turned around and the young women was looking my way, standing near her car with a worried look on her face.
Me: (worried look on my face)
Young Brunette: “I think it’s DIESELLLL,” she said.
Me: “Are you joking? How the hell was I supposed to know that? There’s no sign that says, ‘DIESEL.’ Oh my God. (panic setting in) What do I do?”
Young Brunette: “I don’t know. I’m just here to get some gas and head out to a John Mayer concert. This sucks. I’m going to miss it completely.”
The gas station shares space with a small garage – Eagle Auto Center, LLC. A tall, Polish man with round, hazel eyes approached as Young Brunette began explaining the problem. We both mentioned how there was no sign to suggest it was diesel and how would anyone know otherwise. He said that it wasn’t his gas station and that it’s happened plenty of times in the past. In broken Polish he said, “I don’t know why the man does not put sign on pump. Always I chase away people from the pump but they don’t listen.” He tells us he’s with a customer and will be back shortly.
Young Brunette: “We can’t drive.”
Me: “What? I have to get home. I’m miles away from home. I’m on a trip….”
Young Brunette: “We can’t drive. It’ll ruin our cars.”
We both get on the phone. She calls a friend who confirms that we shouldn’t drive, although she’s only put 54 cents worth in because the nozzle spit back at her, refusing to accept it into the tank. Mine didn’t. I get on the phone with Larry who says the same thing: don’t drive.
This is going to cost a fortune, isn’t it? How the hell do I get myself into these jams in the first place? I bet it’ll easily cost $200. Set the limit high so that when the bill comes and is less, I won’t be so shocked.
The Polish man comes back and we push her car to the correct tank and she fills up, because her friend said that such a small amount might only “smoke” but not hurt the engine. She goes on her way to her concert, after asking me if I’ll be OK - I wasn’t.
Five more quick back and forth calls to Larry reveals that I could do all kinds of damage to my car if I were to drive it.
The Polish man and I push the car into the opening of the garage where he tries to siphon it out with a tube directly into the tank.
No go. It’s too stiff and won’t handle all the curves of the tank.
He tries to elongate the tube with a flimsier tube.
No go.
He drives across the street to see if he can get a longer, flimsy tube from a friend.
No go.
(Panic setting in)
He opens the hood to reveal the car’s engine, exposing the spaghetti of tubes, wires, and metallic parts. With several tools, he attempts to dislodge the fuel intake from the engine.
No go, after several attempts. Two pins are holding the tube firmly in place – Gee, I’m glad it’s not that easy to mess around with this car! (heart pounding) Ohhh, I’m so screwed.
I’d already been there at least an hour, baking in the hot afternoon sun, long-sleeved sweater and jeans and all.
Polish Man: “This not working.”
Raw fear sets in and…I begin to choke up a little. My throat was growing a lump. I’m sure my face said it all. I was truly scared. Forget the car. I just wanted to get home…to Larry. Tunnel vision sets in. Where will I sleep tonight? How will I get home? How much will this cost?
The Polish man walks away and begins looking for some new tools, and returns asking me to open the trunk. It’s filled with my luggage and goodies from the week. He opens the back door and yanks up the seat, hooking it to rear of the car to hold it back. Underneath I can see the fuel line in this circular depression on the frame of the car.
Polish Man: “If this works, you will be happy.”
Another 40 minutes or so goes by while he tries to hook up the stiff, clear tube to the fuel line in the back seat. The tube runs from the line directly into a gas container and was being thrusted by some portable device he had.
This HAS to work. Oh please God, WORK!
Now, if you know me, you know I’m NOT a religious person. But what is it about times of shear desperation that makes one start crossing fingers and toes, or praying to Gods one does not necessarily believe in? Silent deals to oneself which sound like, “If you just let me….I’ll….” can easily humble the soul.
And at that point – no lie – the diesel starts flowing into the container, choking and bubbling and gurgling all the way. Ten minutes pass and only a gallon escapes, and the Polish man asks how much gas I already had in the car. It turned out that I didn’t have as much in there as was stated at the pump, but who cared at that point?
A quick call to Lar to tell him that the diesel is coming out and I begin finding cash and credit cards to pay quickly.
We walked over to the pump and he filled the container with GAS, (real gas!) and siphoned it into my gas tank, testing the car twice to make sure it started and stopped properly. Before closing the fuel tank, he fixed the cover, which had been bent a long time ago by a careless attendant (in New Jersey of course), as well as re-attached the thingie that you screw in to close off the tank back to the cover.
With tools collected and hands wiped I asked the affable Polish man to write me a bill, putting both my hands together, palms up, like I was receiving an offering.Trust me, it WAS an offering, and offering to go home. I would have been happy with any price he quoted me because he was worth his weight in gold.
Polish Man: “No bill.” (smiling and wiping hands)
Me: (staring blankly like a deer caught in the headlights and pulls out cash and credit cards)
Polish Man: “You go home now. Fill tank up all the way and go home.”
Me: “But I have two credit cards and cash. It’s not much cash, but it’s $40. (pause) (indignant now) I want you to write me a bill. I have cards. You just spent the last two hours helping me.”
I glanced at the clock which was just about to hit 7:00pm.
Polish Man: “No.”
Me: (attempting to place cash on work table) “I have money!”
Polish Man: “No.”
He proceeds to tell me that European men are different and a short story about how he needed help and was charged $15 for having someone bring him gas and how he was offended that it cost that much. He tells me that his payment will be to go home and enjoy his boat.
I shook his hand twice before getting into the car, the second time I was choked up. As far as I was concerned, he saved my life that day.
I backed the car up to the tank and filled it with gas, glorious gas, to the brim and called home to Lar. You could say that every time I thought about it on the way home, I choked up.
If you’ve ever had someone do something so profoundly kind for you, you know what I mean when I say:
“Be the change you want to see in the world.”—Mohandas Gandhi
