I live in a state where it is illegal to pump your own gas – unless you’re at a station owned by the Klamath Tribes.
The result of not pumping gas for over fifteen years is that on my recent trip I had to relearn how to operate gas pumps. What I learned is that all pumps are not the same.
Pay inside or pay outside, select payment method, insert card, remove card quickly
do you want a receipt, push yes or no – except sometimes I could not find yes or no,
lift nozzle, select grade of gas, insert nozzle and begin pumping.
Except sometimes you also had to lift the lever into which the nozzle fit – but the instructions failed to mention that.
And sometimes my card could not be read, which meant paying inside was the only option. But they want to know how much to charge – huh? I have no idea, so time for a random guess. In this instance, my guess turned out to be a good one.
I once met the junkyard cat, who offered his friendship in exchange for a belly rub
and then headed for a shady spot in which he could rest quietly. Or not. Because sometimes people would disturb him.
The junkyard cat was a tension reliever, but sometimes the vagaries of the pump made me want to jump into my vehicle and take off
except without gas my vehicle would not go and the other modes of transportation available were not my choice
so I would have to ask for help, feeling ridiculous, hating the helpless female image. Life can be a challenge.
Now I’m home again, I do not have to pump my own gas.