A very nice lady recently dropped by the office to subscribe to the News-Ledger, and in the process of signing her up, she told me that she and her husband had just retired and moved to West Sacramento a few months ago all the way from New Jersey.
“We just couldn’t take the winters anymore,” she explained. “Plus, my daughter and her family live in San Francisco now, and we wanted to be closer to them.”
“So,” I asked, “why didn’t you just move to the Bay Area?”
“Well,” she replied with a smile, “we didn’t want to be that close to them.”
As our little conversation continued, I said something like, “I imagine the East Coast and the West Coast are very different places to call home. What do you miss the most about living in New Jersey?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” she quickly replied. “I miss someone else pumping my gas!”
“Really?”
“Did you know that New Jerseyans – and I think Oregonians, too – are the only Americans living in states that are enlightened enough to make it illegal for gas station customers to pump their own gas?”
“I didn’t know that,” I admitted.
“Apparently the law was written back in the days when it was actually dangerous for civilians to pump their own gas, and I guess no one ever got around to changing it. In fact, our gas station owners back in New Jersey can get a pretty hefty fine if they allow their customers to pump their own gas, although I never actually saw the local police trying to nab gas self-pumpers. So, during sleet, rain, snow and even the dog days of summer, I always sat in the comfort of my car while some poor guy pumped my gas for me. And to tell you the truth, I miss it! To me, gas pumps are scary, smelly, confusing things that are simply best avoided! So now my husband is the poor guy who does all the gas pumping for the family.”
“You’re telling me that you have never once in your life pumped your own gas?” I asked.
“That’s right,” she said, “with one small exception, which of course turned out to be a horrible experience.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Well, to make a very long story short, because I didn’t know how to pump my own gas, I rarely left New Jersey, and when I did, I always filled up the tank before entering more primitive states. But our daughter had just graduated from a college in nearby Pennsylvania and been told she needed to get all of her stuff out of her dorm in the next few days, so without giving it as much logistical thought as I should have, I jumped in my car and drove off to help her. So, with my car overflowing with my daughter’s possessions, I suddenly realized I was going to have to stop and get gas somewhere in Pennsylvania if I was going to make it all the way back home to New Jersey. Panic of course ensued. My daughter had already zipped off in her cute little red Civic and I was stuck with very little gas in my tank and no help. So, I finally pulled into this huge gas station with at least 20 pumps where everyone seemed to know what they were doing except me. Luckily, I did know which side of the car my gas tank was on, so that part of the ordeal went well. But since that was the extent of my gas-pumping knowledge, the next ten minutes or so turned out to be a nightmare.
“I should have just asked for help from the man across from me who was pumping his gas, but for reasons that no doubt go all the way back to my childhood, his opinion of me suddenly seemed to be too important to do that. It would have greatly helped if the directions on the pump had read, `open the little door on the gas tank and unscrew the cap’, but they didn’t. So, I put my credit card in, chose an octane level – which of course made no sense to me – and for whatever reason, the gas started pumping out the handle while still in the machine. So, there I was, with the nozzle in one hand and gas dripping down my arm, while unsuccessfully trying with my other hand to open the gas tank cap. Needless to say, I ruined my brand new manicure, not to mention standing in a puddle of gas in my favorite Sperry boat shoes.
“Anyway, although I had to be an ambidextrous contortionist to do it, I finally figured out how to get the gas tank cap off and managed to get about $40 of gas into my car, which I figured should be enough to get me safely across the New Jersey border. But by the time I got back into my car, I reeked of gasoline and had almost been overcome by the fumes. I just don’t think Americans realize how good they had it back when there was a full-service gas station on almost every corner with eager young attendants pumping our gas and cleaning our windows and checking our oil.”
“So, what was that all about?” asked the editor of the News-Ledger as he poked his head out of his cubical after the nice lady who didn’t know how to pump her own gas had left the office.
“Oh,” I answered, “that was just me and a new subscriber talking about how much better the world was when Gomer and Goober were in it.”