Our deeds still travel with us from afar,
And what we have been
makes us what we are.
---George Eliot
Woke up at 2 in the afternoon, put on my emergency jeans and walked over to the Arco station for cigarettes. The middle-aged, middle eastern-looking clerk was a little busy trying to untangle another gas pump mix-up with cute little Kimmie, the store manager, and a carnival worker customer. The carnival worker said she paid for $6 worth of gas and got none, wanted the clerk to turn on the pump again from his inside switch.
They were sorting this all out while I was standing there. Patiently standing there. My blood stream was nagging me for nicotine. The clerk had his hand out to take my money, but hadn't asked what I wanted yet. His head was still turned towards the conversation he was having with Kimmie.
I stood there patiently, waiting for the little pleasantry I am used to when making a purchase: the little pleasantry of the clerk looking at me and saying "Yes? May I help you?" or something, anything, to acknowledge my existence on this planet (much less my existence standing right in front of him on the customer side of the counter).
This is not the first time I've had to stand at the Arco counter while gas pump mix-ups had to be sorted out by focused reviews of the cash register receipts. The gas customers pile up on them sometimes. I used to be a convenience store manager with gas pumps. I remember the confusion and chaos that can be created by one idiot customer who doesn't know how to operate a gas pump. It's like a freeway accident: cars pile up on you.
But my middle eastern clerk was pumping his outstretched palm at me, the international gesture for "give me the money" while he was mentally engaged elsewhere. So I gave him the twenty. He talked some more with Kimmie about the gas pump tangle while he absently held my twenty. Finally, the decision had been made. Pump number 9 would be re-keyed to dispense another $6 worth of gas to the carnival woman.
Now my clerk turns towards me. He recognizes that I will want a pack of Carlton Menthol 100s before he realizes that he is holding my twenty and throws a pack of my brand onto the counter. I smile. I am the only customer who buys this brand. Kimmie orders the Carltons just for me. I am a known entity at this Arco.
But something is wrong. The clerk just stands there looking at me, my twenty dangling from his hand like he's not sure what to do with it.
I look at him. He looks at me. I'm waiting for change. He's waiting for something. I don't know what. The blood in my veins is louder now, demanding nicotine. I can't deliver the nicotine until I get my change from the twenty and walk outside, where, for now, it is still legal to smoke.
He looks at me. I look at him. He sets the twenty on the ledge of the cash register, thinks better of it, and palms it again. What's the confusion, I ask myself. I look into his eyes. I can see that the lights are on in there, but the change ain't coming. Finally he asks me:
"Did you want gas with that?"
"NOT UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO STICK IT UP MY ASS," my nicotine addiction yells impatiently at him, "I WALKED over here."
Kimmie turned and said something to me about being mean, but I looked at it as jump starting my clerk's change-making side of the brain, sorta like those electric paddles the ambulance guys use to get a patient's heart beating again. It was an L.A. kinda thing to say. I got my change.
They were sorting this all out while I was standing there. Patiently standing there. My blood stream was nagging me for nicotine. The clerk had his hand out to take my money, but hadn't asked what I wanted yet. His head was still turned towards the conversation he was having with Kimmie.
I stood there patiently, waiting for the little pleasantry I am used to when making a purchase: the little pleasantry of the clerk looking at me and saying "Yes? May I help you?" or something, anything, to acknowledge my existence on this planet (much less my existence standing right in front of him on the customer side of the counter).
This is not the first time I've had to stand at the Arco counter while gas pump mix-ups had to be sorted out by focused reviews of the cash register receipts. The gas customers pile up on them sometimes. I used to be a convenience store manager with gas pumps. I remember the confusion and chaos that can be created by one idiot customer who doesn't know how to operate a gas pump. It's like a freeway accident: cars pile up on you.
But my middle eastern clerk was pumping his outstretched palm at me, the international gesture for "give me the money" while he was mentally engaged elsewhere. So I gave him the twenty. He talked some more with Kimmie about the gas pump tangle while he absently held my twenty. Finally, the decision had been made. Pump number 9 would be re-keyed to dispense another $6 worth of gas to the carnival woman.
Now my clerk turns towards me. He recognizes that I will want a pack of Carlton Menthol 100s before he realizes that he is holding my twenty and throws a pack of my brand onto the counter. I smile. I am the only customer who buys this brand. Kimmie orders the Carltons just for me. I am a known entity at this Arco.
But something is wrong. The clerk just stands there looking at me, my twenty dangling from his hand like he's not sure what to do with it.
I look at him. He looks at me. I'm waiting for change. He's waiting for something. I don't know what. The blood in my veins is louder now, demanding nicotine. I can't deliver the nicotine until I get my change from the twenty and walk outside, where, for now, it is still legal to smoke.
He looks at me. I look at him. He sets the twenty on the ledge of the cash register, thinks better of it, and palms it again. What's the confusion, I ask myself. I look into his eyes. I can see that the lights are on in there, but the change ain't coming. Finally he asks me:
"Did you want gas with that?"
"NOT UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO STICK IT UP MY ASS," my nicotine addiction yells impatiently at him, "I WALKED over here."
Kimmie turned and said something to me about being mean, but I looked at it as jump starting my clerk's change-making side of the brain, sorta like those electric paddles the ambulance guys use to get a patient's heart beating again. It was an L.A. kinda thing to say. I got my change.
Tags: Blip.tv, zefrank, Arco gas station, jump starting, Arco clerk, viral video, funny videos, street life, homeless, emergency jeans, carnival worker, world news, ghetto play, nagging for nicotine, gas pump mixup, James Jarvis, video blog, vlogger, vlogging
