Gas station job fuels memories

TORONTO STAR FILE PHOTO

Working at a gas station during the summer can create all kinds of lasting memories.

Jefferson Davis

SPECIAL TO THE STAR

Looking back on my summers as a teen in the 1970s, a huge bite of life's reality sandwich came courtesy of a job pumping gas at my parents' service station. Sometimes that realism followed the age-old phrase "you have to see it to believe it."

Our station was located in Niagara Falls, Ont. and, because of the scenic wonders nearby, was often a rest stop for Americans headed to their rented cottages in such places as Muskoka or Georgian Bay.

One day a long and tightly packed station wagon resembling the gas-guzzler from The Brady Bunch pulled up with a set of skis strapped to the roof.

Given that it was July, I figured they were avid water-skiers. But when I nearly impaled myself on a pole, it struck me that this family was after the nearest powdery slope.

I greeted the family and they said they hoped they wouldn't have to drive too far north to find snow.

I almost told them to take the first right up the road and keep going until they hit Ellesmere Island, but common courtesy prevailed.

A gas station is a common meeting place for a nation on the move – from clueless travellers to friends closer to home – and the summers I spent pumping gas gave me the chance to observe them all.

Our station sat across the road from my high school at one end of a busy retail plaza. Chances were great that I would be serving people I knew, whether I liked them or not. As an awkward teenager, I did not relish facing tough guys from gym class or the best-looking girls in school, with the smell of gasoline all over me and streaks of grease and oil on my arms and face.

My first year at the pumps taught me a few things. Checking the oil and transmission was easy, but puncturing those old cans of 10W30 and not spilling anything was next to impossible. The grumpiest people always had their oil intake in a spot that only Houdini could reach. Mishaps occurred on the hottest days, producing smoke when the oil hit the engine manifold. People either glared at me or acted as though the Towering Inferno was being filmed.

I also learned that daft individuals owned the most dangerous pets. I was astonished when people would casually state "don't worry, he won't bite" while the menacing 150-pounder was growling and snapping at me. The biggest dog I remember was a husky that ran around in circles barking and trying to bite its own tail. It was hardly a re-assuring site for a skinny teenager in shorts and short sleeves.

The bell cord between the pump islands was both a source of frustration and amusement. Pedestrians cutting through the lot could not resist jumping on the cord to signal a customer. This was annoying when I was busy stocking shelves or trying to make a quick pit stop in the washroom. But one colleague of mine used to have the hose in the ready position to squirt the deserving victims.

These experiences taught me how to control my temper and learn to deal rationally with customers. It didn't always work out that way. One of the liveliest exchanges I had involved a lady working with the Victorian Order of Nurses. At one point, she questioned my ability to count or read, whereupon I looked at the acronym on the side of the car and noted that it read "VON-very old nurses."

Rick Mercer should have been around for the humorous dialogue with American tourists. One chap from Detroit told me he was an hour east of Windsor before he clued in that he was not allowed to drive at 100 miles per hour. One day a good ol' boy pulled out a $20 bill to pay for his gas and noted that "I didn't know y'all have a women president up here."

Sunny, warm weekend mornings were particularly distracting for a teenage boy. Bikini-clad girls would pull up to the pumps on their way to Sherkston Beach. You were always supposed to wash the windows and offer to check the oil at a full-serve and I made absolutely sure I did both in these cases. If they were from outside the area and needed directions, it was all the better.

Our lot was also located next to a hydro tower known as "The Rock." It was here that pickups, muscle cars, old heaps and the roughest kids from the high school would congregate. They came equipped with booze, grass and German Shepherds. My high school geography teacher referred to them as the "Stoned Dog Worshippers."

Occasionally they'd stagger over and ask for a free bag of ice. I'd always say we were out of ice at the time. The mall security guard used to pop around and ask me to call the cops because something bad was going to happen on "the Rock" that night. I think he'd seen one too many episodes of Adam 12.

The summer of 1983 saw prices at gas stations drop below 20 cents per litre and we often had several price changes a day. One hot afternoon I was busy with a few cars and when I had a chance to look up, I noticed a line extending off the lot. I assumed that the competitor down the street was out of fuel.

When I looked at their sign it read 46.5 cents per litre. I was relieved a half hour later when I received a call to put the price up, but I felt sorry for my next customer who arrived with an empty tank and left with $36 less in her pocket.

That was also my last summer in the Falls. Oddly enough, two of my last customers were my Grade 4 teacher and my old crossing guard, neither of whom I'd seen in 10 years. What that symbolized I can't say but that last week was hot and humid like all the others.

Over the years I came to expect a few things: Quebecers were fine tippers and doctors were not; the teachers I disliked the most in high school were even worse as customers since they expected me to uphold every promise in their car's owner's manual. But I met some incredibly nice people who trusted me to treat them and their vehicles right. Save for a few honest mistakes, I always did.

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