Wasted Years

A long time ago (almost four years!), I posted a bit about working at the gas station and fucking with customers who were assholes. I followed that up with an idea to post more stories from that point of my life. Which I never did. Until today!

WARNING: These stories will not be in any chronological order! So for those of you who know these stories or were involved in them, if your recollection tells you story a happened before story b, but after story c - you're probably right. Do me a favor and remind me of that.

Way back in 1994, I was a junior in high school, had just turned 16, and had just gotten my driver's license. All of these things were great, but I had no car and no job to give me the money I needed to get a car. I had pounded the pavement all summer long trying to find a job before school started to maximize my car savings, but came up empty handed.

My dad, watching my plight with the pity that fathers have for their bumbling teenage sons, took me over to the gas station his friend owned. They had been friends for the better part of a decade, maybe longer - I can't remember now, how long they had known each other, but I do remember that dad's friend (soon to become The Boss!) had given me my first wedgie when I was still knee high to a grasshopper.

My very first job interview was a five minute conversation that assessed whether or not I could check engine oil (I could), stock coolers (I could), and mop floors (I could). I was given the job on the spot, with a schedule that fit in nicely with my life at the time - weekdays after school until 9 (except for Tuesdays - I had guitar lessons with my stoner guitar teacher on Tuesdays) and Saturdays from 12 - 6.

I left with a job, excited to be on my way to owning my first car. Little did I know that the Station would become the hub of my life for the next two and a half years.

Acidman weighs in on gas prices and the price gas station attendants are paying.

One of the things I enjoy about reading Acidman's rants, is the way he'll explain his position and then sum it all up in a couple of words.

If you can't pay for your gas, buy a bicycle. And shut the fuck up.

Amen!

A few years back I used to work the midnight shift in a gas station. At that time, gas was still less than $2/gallon, but people would piss and moan about gas prices and I had my fair share of customers come in and rip into me over the price I was 'forcing' them to pay for gas. After I had a couple of worthless pricks drive off without paying, I made everyone prepay, no matter what. At that time, the system allowed the clerk to stop and start pumps, even after the gas had started pumping.

So after some jackass would come in and take his anger out on me, I'd ruin his night a little more by constantly stopping and restarting the pump he was on. The abusive cocksuker customer would motion angrily at me and point at his pump. I'd shrug my shoulders, push the start button, and give him a thumbs-up. He'd go back to pumping his gas and I'd wait for him to look away. Once the coast was clear, I'd hammer the stop button and grab a magazine or make myself look busy. Wash, rinse, repeat.

I'd do that as many times as I felt was fair for the level of verbal abuse I'd suffered. Sometimes, I'd get on the Voice-Of-God mic and talk to the assholes:

Me: Push the button.
C: I did!
Me: Not according to the computer
C: I pushed the fucking button!!
Me: Well, here... (pushes random buttons on register and then the start button) ...try it now.
C: Oh there it goes.
Me: (Pushes stop button) Glad I could help you out!
C: Wait! It's not working again!
Me: Well, let me try resetting your pump. I need you to hang up the nozzle for a second.
C: (Hangs nozzle up)

At this point I'd usually reset the pump, give them the go-ahead, and leave 'em alone, but the ones that were real pricks got it bad. I actually had one guy spend almost twenty minutes trying to pump gas before I had him move to another pump and let him go from there.

Sure, they'd come back in and bitch at me again about my pump not working, but at least it provided me with cheap entertainment on slow nights. Plus, this time around, I was actually getting bitched at for something I had control over.

Don't fuck with the attendants... or better yet, don't bite the hand that feeds you.