Instructions would have been nice
I shouldn’t take things for granted. I mean, just because you’ve pumped gas into the car, it doesn’t mean that you can “make it work” every time. Life isn’t supposed to be easy.
It’s cold, and when the mercury (OK, digital circuit) plummets, I become the de facto pump boy. So here we are; one of those amazing places where there are fourteen pumps, all designed to double as point of sales devices. Arranged in rows, under bright lights and the all-seeing eye of the camera (the better to watch for driveaways). We’re getting used to the idea that the tank door is on the wrong side, always. Finally, she who is the only one allowed to drive me around pulls up to an empty pump, strategically placed away from anyone else. I climb out and do the usual routine.
No activation. My pump doesn’t. I replace the spigot and try again, over and over (another troubling symptom of insanity). Finally, my wits kicked in and I headed for the (indoor) cash register. There, a kindly little white-haired man (a petrol leprechaun) explains that THAT pump only accepts credit cards.
No need for any signs or other indicators. He confirmed that others arrived at the same complex point, and that he sometimes would even go outside and explain how things worked. Well, now I feel MUCH BETTER. I have never given my credit card to a gas pump. Not ever. That’s all I need; to permit the fossil fuel industry to put me in debt forever.
In a fair and just world, we would have refused to deal with such arcane marketing strategies. Instead, because we needed gas, we drove around to another pump and made our purchase. And from now on, when it comes time to fill up, we’ll take our business to the place down the road, where gas pumps simply dispense product. Fool me once…
