My New '92 Licks Route 66

Route 66 gas station, pump number two. It was only my third time pumping gas into my new car. The first time - at the same location, in fact - was a disaster, so I thought my folks at the double six would cut me some slack.

Pulling my hood over my head and clutching my keys in my fist, I scrambled to the trunk. Yes, I have to open my trunk to open my gas tank. Thank you, Mercury Topaz '92 manufacturers. After finagling with the little black gas tank lid (Lid or top? Little black gas tank top sounds like an article of clothing from Candies), I swiped my card and hopped up and down to keep warm until the screen read "zip code". I punched in the digits, but the buttons did not work. 

I tried again. I tried using my thumb. I tried using my finger nail. All of my weight concentrated into my right hand as I pushed so hard I thought I would give birth to those five little numbers.

I marched into the gas station, keys and card in hand. I stood in line behind three burly looking men buying lotto tickets and Marlboros, and then I approached the counter.

"The buttons at pump number two aren't working, soooo...What do you want me to do? Is the pump broken or can I just pay in here?"

"Yeah, just pull up to one."

"I already did...It's not working," I ventured, confused about his unfriendly demeanor.

"No. Pull up to number one," he replied, stressing his p's and b's.  He lifted his pointer finger as he spoke and looked up at me as his chin rested against his neck which was similar in diameter to a can of Folger's Coffee.

"Can't I just pay here for pump two?" 

"Hey, you asked what I wanted you to do." The overweight gas station man in the white a-shirt with who-knows-what-stains looked annoyed.

"Right, but I don't care what you want anymore." I all but put my hand over my mouth after that one, I couldn't believe I'd actually said it.

Folgers made that scraping noise in the back of his throat that people make when they're peeved, but he swiped my card. I pleased and thank you'd my way out the door since I was cringing with guilt and can be more than a bit of a fake-o sometimes.

But he was pushing me around. And he did have an attitude. So I zipped back to my car, wondering whether it was better to speak my mind, since it got me what I wanted, or to remain polite, since it would leave me guilt-free, even if it was at the cost of my pride.

My Topaz sounded a childish "pbbbttthhh!" as I drove away. I like to imagine it was compensating for my fake politeness by farewelling Coffee Can Neck in precisely the way I wish I could have. Thank you, Mercury Topaz '92 manufacturers.