Filling up these days is not a gas gas gas

I just had a birthday, so I feel comfortable slipping into “old codger” mode for a bit. Old codgers, as you are no doubt aware, spend a great deal of time complaining about how much better life was in the “good old days.”

Sugar was sweeter, skies were bluer, grass was greener … blah, blah, blah. It’s one reason old codgers frequently wind up in nursing homes; nobody not on the payroll is going to listen to them babble on like this. Sure, other old codgers might seem to be listening, but what they’re really thinking about is whether cream corn is on the menu again tonight.

At any rate, I’m going to risk commitment to the nursing home and do a little codger-ing myself this week.

When I was a kid (which is how all old codger proclamations begin) gas stations (which were called “service stations” because they actually provided service) were totally different than they are today. You pulled in and at least two guys in coveralls would descend upon your car; one to pump the gas, the other to check your oil, water, tire pressure and the fitness of your car’s various belts, hoses and wires. If something needed fixing (and, admittedly, sometimes even if it didn’t) the mechanic (they weren’t called “service technicians” back then) would fix it for you.

The customer would remain in his or her car, warm, dry and listening to “Moon River” on the AM radio.

It was a good system and the station with the best service usually got the most customers.

I was thinking about this the other day when I went to gas up my gun-boat (an old Mercury the size of a tennis court and the quintessential codger-mobile) at a gas station in Saugatuck. I won't say which brand of gas it was, but it rhymes with "swell", "smell", and not coincidentally, I think, "hell."

Rain was pelting when I pulled up to the pump; that sleeting, soggy, late-November precipitation that so plagues Michigan this time of year. No attendants came running out to fill my tank, but since that hasn’t happened in years, I wasn’t really expecting any.

I stepped out into the downpour, lifted the frigid nozzle from the pump and stuck it in the appropriate receptacle. I pushed the “regular” button. I squeezed the handle. Nothing happened. I pushed the button again. Still nothing.

A disembodied voice blared from an overhead speaker: “Pump nine is prepay only!”

I looked up into the pouring rain. “What?” I said.

“Pump nine is prepay only!” the voice repeated, somehow managing to sound bored and condescending at the same time.

I replaced the nozzle and trudged the 20 yards to the station’s entrance. I waited in line while the three people in front of me decided which lottery tickets and cigarette brands they wanted. Finally, it was my turn.

“I need to fill it up,” I said. “But I don’t know how much it will be. How can I prepay?”

The kid at the counter, who had obviously heard the question before, explained that I could leave a whole bunch of money, then trudge through the rain a second time to get whatever change I might have coming. I left $60, walked back into the stinging sleet, and stuck the nozzle in the tank.

This time gas came out, but sloooooowly. Why, I wondered, would they set their pumps so the gas flowed so slowly?

The answer came two seconds later, when a small box bolted to the pump began blaring out advertisements for the fabulous specials on Ho-Ho’s, Ding-Dongs and Twinkies being offered inside. The sound quality from the tiny speaker was terrible, but very loud.

For several minutes I stood in the rain, getting wetter, madder, and old codger-ier. As soon as I figured I had enough gas to get me home I gave up, though the tank was far from full. I just couldn’t take it anymore.

Calling upon the patience of Job and the pacifism of Gandhi, I managed to resist pumping an extra gallon or so into the small speaker box, which was now shouting at me about how important my “shopping experience” was to the station’s management.

I’m thinking of staging an Old Codger’s Rebellion and wresting control of American business from the young and putting it back in the hands of geezers, where it belongs. I wonder if the AARP would give me funding.

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.