It was one early, February covid day when I broke my usual silence.
I was qued up with a gaggle of fellow gasoline serfs in our local co-op fuel station, collectively drifting in and out of linehood when a member attendant queried the actively waiting.
“Pump number 4?” She asked without prejudice.
I was pump number 4 that day so I immediately responded “present!” to which the attending attendant replied with her eyes “keep your distance weirdo” instantly propelling me into a crazy town only talk can get a person out of.
“A hundred and forty-seven dollars even” continued the smiless member attendant.
Now it was the senior moron’s turn to squeak.
“You know, when I was sixteen I was a gas jockey and I squeezed ten dollars worth of gas into a woman’s Pontiac, and she refused to pay, saying there’s no way 10 bucks worth of gas would fit in her car.”
I pregnant paused for impact, then continued fabling.
“The gas station manager explained how i maybe hadn’t zeroed out the pump before filling her car and he cut her bill in half to only five dollars.”
“I really did pump ten bucks worth of gas into her car,” I clarified, “and that woman would be astonished to see what a fuel fillup costs today…”
Stunned silence from the gasoline serfs as I brought my economic lesson to an awkward culmination.
“A hundred and forty-seven dollars,” the attendant said a bit more loudly as the guy behind me expanded his social distance.