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Adventures in pumping gas, part two July 6, 2006

Posted by tcnme in Anecdote, Driving, Gasoline, Highway.

(Continued from here.)

So yes, bags on the pumps. And not one or two pumps, as if I had simply pulled up to the wrong one. All of them.

Yes, I felt pretty dumb for not noticing this on my previous passes, but not entirely — the food-store portion of the station did indeed seem open for business. But this wasn’t going to help me. So I set off east, with I-95 behind me, at this point ready to pump anything I could find into my Scion’s nearly-empty tank.

What lay to the east was an area not exactly brimming with gas stations, and other bourgeois things. I can’t really remember how far I had to drive until coming across a more fuel-friendly area, but I’m certain I missed a few turns and found myself on the wrong side of the road (opposite a perfectly good gas station) a couple of times, more willing to press on than navigate backwards, especially after coming across a street with a familiar name, one I knew to be main enough to contain lots of gas stations and just as importantly, one that would eventually take me where I was headed, without needing to trek west, back to the interstate.

On this road, I spied a suitable gas station (read: one with gas) up ahead and decided I wouldn’t let this one pass unless I could see my brand of choice in the distance. I could not. I pulled in, found the pumps functional and pumped approximately three gallons — enough to hold me over until I found the right “station.” Paid, pumped and parted.

At a stoplight a few blocks north, I glanced at my receipt and nearly had a conniption, screaming obscenities at the little piece of paper bearing the $39-something total. I made the first U-turn (sense a trend?) and headed south, back towards the station. On the way, I realized that not only was the total wrong, but the amount of gas pumped was as well. And hey, I don’t have a MasterCard!

It was then that I realized that I was simply given the wrong receipt by the machine; the man behind the counter printed me one of my own. Before I left, I decided to just see what would happen if I were to pull on the tiny bit of receipt paper hanging ever so slightly out of the printing slot… revealing my receipt. Ugh.

This was about the time my day ceased to be interesting. In spite of all the comforts afforded to me by my tC, by this point I was sick of the sight of the inside of that car.



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