George Bilgere

Full Serve

Yesterday I pulled up to the gas station and bought a tank of gas. As usual, I stopped at the self serve pump. Usually that’s all there is nowadays. You get out of the car, insert your credit card, pump the gas, and leave. You don’t see anyone. You don’t talk to anyone. Pumping gas is a lonely experience. You just stand there, staring at the numbers spinning of the face of the pump. Or you walk pointlessly around the car, staring at the tires, wondering if there’s a better way to be spending this three or four minutes. Maybe if you’re feeling really ambitious you’ll clean the windshield. But most people don’t bother. Getting gas is just a blank spot in the day. When the tank is full, the pump might give a little beep. Its digital readout might say, Thank You! Or even, Have a nice day! But usually it doesn’t say anything. The pump doesn’t care about you.

It wasn’t always like this. Back in the 1950s getting gas was an entirely different experience. Each gas station maintained a large crew of highly trained attendants. They were constantly at the ready, waiting for someone to come to the gas station to fill up. They were like firemen, maintaining a high level of preparedness.

Here’s what happened when you pulled up. A small army of uniformed attendants came running out. One of them approached your window and asked, with a friendly smile, about the kind of gas you wanted to buy. Another attendant checked your tire pressure. His whole life was devoted to checking tire pressure, and he was very good with it.

Yet another attendant opened the hood of your car and checked various fluid levels. Oil, coolant, and mysterious fluids you didn’t know you had. Fluids weren’t your business. They were the business of the fluid guy, and he knew his fluids. As your gas was being pumped a qualified dental technician would clean and floss your teeth. A medical assistant used a tiny tool to clean wax from inside your ears. Another assistant tapped your chest and pressed a stethoscope to your heart, then vacuumed your floor mats.

The air pressure expert, once he was finished with your tires, asked you politely to step out of the car and bend over for a quick prostate examination. A certified state expert checked your scalp, and the scalps of your passengers, for hair lice. You received a quick manicure. Your shoes were shined and buffed by a smiling young man who invariably sang Chattanooga Choo Choo during the process. Your jacket and slacks were steam cleaned and pressed. You received a complimentary haircut, and if you had a beard or moustache it was professionally trimmed. An on-site masseuse rubbed your shoulders as all this was going on. A financial expert performed a quick survey of your bank statements and investment portfolios and offered some investment strategies.

You received a flu shot. If you wore glasses an on-site eye doctor checked your prescription. There was an on-site Catholic priest, a rabbi, a pastor, and even a medicine man who provided spiritual guidance. A licensed psychiatrist was on hand to provide psychotherapy and marital advice. Your wristwatch was cleaned, wound, and set to the correct time. If you were traveling with a pet, the pet was washed and blow dried. If the pet happened to be very old or ill it would be compassionately euthanized by a licensed, on-site veterinarian.

Also, your windshield would be cleaned and the wiper fluid topped off.

And this entire process took only five minutes.

It’s not like that today. Today’s world is about efficiency. It’s about getting from point A to point B. Whatever happened to the idea of life being about the journey, not the destination? That’s what I’m pondering as I stand alone beside the pump on a cold wet day, waiting for my tank to fill.

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George Bilgere never turned in his bio. Damn him to a future of half-baked, online-only literary publications like this one next time you see him.