A car rolls in, the bell dings. “What can I do for you?” It’s the same old game. Fill it up with regular. Mid-grade. Premium. I’m the guy who pumps your gas. Today gas went over two dollars. You can bet we’ll hear about it. “What the hell’s with gas prices?” “$2.05, are you kidding?” “Is it because you’re pumping it for me?” And those are the polite ones. I follow my boss’ lead, “Fire at a refinery in Washington. It’s driving prices up all over the west coast.” Oregon is one of only two states where it’s illegal to pump your own gas. The other is New Jersey. Go figure. Great company for us. It’s not horrible working at Buy-Rite. I guess. It’s too bad it’s not one of the good stations, like Shell or something where I could really be selling out. Our uniforms are gray, with a thick black horizontal stripe in the middle. Ugly as shit.
Either way it’s a job, and the
only one I could get. Restaurants wouldn’t even hire me to wash
Excerpt from book.