Self-service

Do you know how when you fill your gas tank all the way to the tippy-top and the automatic shut-off valve shuts off the gas flow and you pull out the pump handle and no more gasoline comes out? And do you know how sometimes that doesn’t work and you pull out the pump handle and gasoline continues to blast out of the nozzle, covering the side of your car and your shoes and the surrounding asphalt until it looks like it’s been raining? 

No? Well count yourself lucky but that is exactly what happened to me last Tuesday at an Exxon station in Rockville, Maryland. The tank was full, I pulled out the nozzle, and the gasoline continued to flow, and I stood panicking as the gasoline shot out like water from a garden hose in June. 

I couldn’t stop the gasoline and I finally gathered my feeble wits and shouted for the lady at the next pump, who ran inside to get help. And when help came, it was distinctly unhelpful. A young woman who works in the gas station scolded me. “You can’t just spray the gas when the nozzle is out of the tank!” 

“I can’t stop it!” I yelled back. “Do I look like I want to spray gas all over the place?” The man who owns the station came running out behind her. 

“This is what happens!” he yelled at me. “This is what happens when you put the nozzle in and then get back in your car while the tank fills!” 

I was flabbergasted. I’ve been filling my own gas tank for well over thirty years. I’ve pumped gas in at least ten different U.S. states and two Canadian provinces. I know how to fill a gas tank. And I NEVER EVER EVER leave a gas pump unattended. 

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “I didn’t get back in the car! I was standing here the whole time. And you know what? This is a gas station, and I am guessing that you have video surveillance tape to prove that.” 

“And I saw her,” said the helpful lady. “I saw the whole thing happen. She was standing outside her car the whole time.” 

“Thank you!” I said, gesturing toward my new friend. “At least someone here is helpful! Meanwhile, according to the total, I spilled $21 in gas, and I want a refund.” 

The man scoffed. “I’m not giving you a refund. There’s nothing wrong with that pump. You spilled the gas, and you have to pay for it.” He commenced with the clean-up operation, spreading kitty litter and sweeping it away with a large push broom. 

“There is obviously something wrong with the nozzle,” I said. “Your assistant could not turn off the nozzle from the pump; she had to run back inside to turn it off.” 

He scoffed again. “I’m not going to argue with you,” he said. “That pump is fine. I haven’t had any other complaints.” 

“Perhaps you need a dictionary,” I said, “because what you and I are doing right now is the very definition of argument. You can’t say that you’re not arguing when you are in fact doing exactly that.” Petty, but words mean something, you know what I mean?

He huffed a bit. “I’m just cleaning up,” he said. “If you think there’s something wrong with the pump, go ahead and call Weights and Measures.” 

A challenge! A gauntlet thrown! So that’s how we’re playing this, are we, Mister Man? It’s like that, is it? Fine by me! “I will!” I said. And so I called Weights and Measures, right then and there. 

Let me tell you that the Maryland Weights and Measures Office is a fine organization. 5/5. Would recommend. I called them, and an actual human person answered on the second ring. I briefly explained the problem, and the young man said “of course. Let me get some information–unless you’d like to report anonymously? You can report anonymously.” 

Anonymously? This is Weights and Measures, I thought, right? Am I on the line with the DEA? Am I dropping a dime on Tuco? Do your callers often face violent reprisals?

“No, no need,” I said. “I’ll give you my name and any other information you need.” And so the Weights and Measures person took my name and phone number, and the gas station’s address, and the pump number. “Are you OK?” he asked me. “Gas spills are upsetting. So unexpected.” 

“I’m OK, but thank you,” I said. I really was a bit shaken up, and a kind word was welcome. The Weights and Measures guy promised me that an inspector would contact me, and we said a polite goodbye. 

Later that afternoon, after I had thrown away a perfectly good pair of shoes and washed all of the clothes that I had been wearing, the inspector called as promised. He took a few additional details, and told me that he’d be visiting the offending gas station the next morning, and would call me to report on his findings. “Don’t expect a warm welcome,” I said. 

*****

Do you know how when you’re missing a Y chromosome, and you explain a mechanical or technical failure to a man, even a man you’re married to, and he listens with what appears to be interest, but there’s something in his expression or his tone of voice that makes you think that he doubts your version of events, and is secretly attributing the mechanical or technical failure to user error on your part? 

My husband is a detective. He interviews suspects, asking pointed questions to get to the story behind the story. Eliciting the truth from varying versions of events is his whole job. Well, it’s a big part of his job. 

Like lots of other dedicated professionals, he forgets sometimes that he’s not on the clock. So when I told him what happened, he was immediately sympathetic because he’s my husband and he loves me. But then the questions started. “So wait, the shut-off valve engaged when the tank was full, but then the gas kept flowing? And you weren’t pressing down the pump lever? No, no, I believe you–I’m just trying to understand this.” 

Did I press down the pump lever? Did I actually do something wrong? I spent the whole night gaslighting myself into thinking that perhaps I’m just stupid enough to have forgotten how to pump gas. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe it WAS user error.  

*****

I had just about convinced myself that the whole thing was my fault, and then I was even more upset; upset that I had caused trouble for a blameless small businessman and upset that I’m obviously so completely off the rails in terms of cognitive function that I can no longer perform everyday tasks such as filling my tank with gas. And then Weights and Measures came to the rescue. The inspector called me the next morning, and as soon as he greeted me, I knew that he had good news, at least from my perspective. 

Although the pump’s automatic shut-off valve worked properly, the nozzle had a broken clip spring. When the inspector tested it, the clip got stuck in its track and gas continued to flow, even when the shut-off valve was engaged. More mechanical blah blah blah with the bottom line being that I was right and I’m not crazy and it was the gas pump and not me. It was not user error, at least not this time. 

*****

As soon as I got off the phone with the fine civil servant of the state of Maryland, I called the terrible gas station man. Now I knew, and I knew that he knew, and I wanted him to know that I knew. Yeah, I know. Petty. 

Plus, that little adventure cost me $71–$21 in spilled gas, and $50 for the almost-new pair of sneakers that I had to throw away. And I love those sneakers. 

If the terrible gas station man had been decent about the whole thing from the beginning, then I wouldn’t be inclined to worry about a relatively small loss. But he wasn’t decent, he was a big fat jerk and now he’s a big fat jerk who owes me $71. 

I told the terrible big fat jerk of a gas station man that I’d spoken to the inspector and he had confirmed that the fault was with the pump and not with the pumper, and he acknowledged my statement in the most austere and distant tone imaginable. I told him that I wanted three things: the $21 for the excess gas (note that I was NOT asking for a free tank of gas, but only to be refunded for the gas that spilled through no fault of mine), $50 to replace my shoes, and an apology; and that if I didn’t receive these three things, I would be filing suit in small claims court. 

He harumphed. “I’ll refund the $21 and yes yes yes I will apologize. And I will dry clean the shoes.” 

The terrible gas station man was not catching on. He didn't get it. He thought that we were negotiating. He harumphed once again, a satisfied harumph this time, indicative of his belief that he was getting the upper hand in this little bargaining session. By the way, this man is fairly young. He can’t be more than 40, and yet he harumphs like an old man. This is what happens, Terrible Gas Station Man. Being a terrible person ages you prematurely. 

“How can I help you understand this?” I said. “Do you remember when you stood arguing with me, and told me that you weren’t going to argue with me, making clear that you don’t really know what that word means? Well I do know what that word means, and I’m really not going to argue. It’s those three things, exactly those three things, no more and no less, or we can let a judge decide. Entirely up to you. Take some time to think about it if you need to.” 

“Fine,” he said, finally understanding that as the victor, I was setting the terms. “But I need to see the receipt for the shoes.” 

He doesn’t give up easily. I will give him that. “It so happens that I still have the receipt,” I said, “and I will be happy to bring it to you.” 

We ended the conversation; me with a civil goodbye and him with a final harumph. 

*****

At the time, I was quite determined to follow through–$71 and an apology, or small claims court. But several days have passed and I haven’t returned to collect my money. And I think that the terrible gas station man probably thinks that by agreeing to apologize, he has in fact already apologized, and I don’t want to go ten more rounds of “you keep saying that word and I don’t think it means what you think it means” with him. 

More importantly, it’s not the money. It’s the vindication. And I have been vindicated, not only by the heroic Weights and Measures man but by the female gas station employee, who later admitted to my husband’s police colleague that the nozzle was faulty. And the terrible gas station man would not have given an inch on my demands had he not known that I was right. I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I might just let this go for now. I won, and I might be gracious in victory. Now I just have to find a new gas station.