Huffing Gas

On my way home from work this evening, typically a sacred time of the day, my cutting edge circa 1995 dashboard told me it was time to pump some cash into the old fuel tank. The friendly little yellow icon was harmless enough, and I appreciated the convenience of the message. Pulling into the trusted local Exxon station, I scanned the slots, while subconsciously calculating the dynamics involved with what side my gas tank was on. Terrific! A spot was wide open and I edged towards it, not wanting to alarm any of the foot-goers in the parking lot. I sensed a slight challenge as I neared the open slot, when a gentleman in a late model pick-up was driving into one of the two slots from the other side. Using that telepathy all people are sudden incline to at the gas station, I told him "I'm just going to edge right in front of you, we'll simply both have to back up when we're finished.". He seemed to comprehend the message just fine and we began to align ourselves with the grace of a couple of well-fed Lipizzan Stalions. Suddenly, and without warning, a larger truck with out of state plates (unspecified), came cruising up behind the man and seemed to force him directly into my spot. Dumbfounded, I stopped the car and threw it in reverse, hoping to resolve the situation with a friendly wave as it was clear this individual behind the wheel of that savage truck didn't speak telepathically like must individuals. The wave resolved nothing, and the man in the smaller truck simply gave up in his attempt at courteousy. There I was, awkwardly positioned in front of these vehicles, and enveloped by hordes of beer-buying pedestrians swarming into the store. My plight soon caught the attention of the other half dozen or so fueling-folks within an eye-shot, and they simply turned their heads, assuming I'd only be angry and vehicularly aggressive in the tight parking lot. I felt a tingle of mad creep up my spine and into my brain, but quickly dismissed it, focusing rather on the situation at hand. After several clumsy maneuvers, I was backed into a slot and poking the gas pump into my gas tank. It struck me as I stood there funding the Royal Family of Saudi Arabia and their terrorist friends, that time is a very potent element in the overly-used emotion of anger. Take almost any situation that makes you angry, and there will surely be traces of wasted time. It didn't take me more than a couple of gallons of gas to realize that I was not only spending the time of my Wednesday evening filling this pig, but also time I had wasted at work the weeks before when I had made the $20.09 that went into my tank. The $12.98 an hour I'm issued by the company I work for, turns into about $9.something after the Federal and State governments engage in nonconsensual sex with my paycheck, therefore I was putting over 2 hours of my time a couple weeks back into my car!!! I was nearing the $15.00 mark (a rare milestone in my trips to the gas station) when I decided I wasn't going to spend this time, spending time, so quickly. I eased up on the old gas handle and enjoyed my 140 or so seconds of standing on Mr. Exxon's fine concrete. Desperately listening for a bird or the chirp of a cricket to bring more enjoyment to my visit to the station, I edged up over that $20 mark and called it a fill (which it's really not). I languidly flipped the pump off, and mossied on over to my car door. It was a nice visit to the gas station, the weather was good, the gas was obviously of high quality (at the prices they were asking). I think I might go back someday.