The Answer Man (Part 1)

      Driving south from our high school, Sullivan's Shell Station was on the left side of the main road before you get up to cruising speed.  Nicely appointed, with a split rail fence fronting the highway, and extending along the sides of the property, the place had a rustic charm. When facing the station, from right to left, you had the self-serve air and the diesel pump, two gigantic DIY garage bays, a nice store area with vending machines, (and a little back room for employees), a very cozy office and on the other side of the office, the restroom, whose key hung from the obligatory huge block of wood.

    Back then, the attendant didn’t just sit inside and run the register; no sir, he had to pump the gas, check the oil, wash the windows and even take a crack at diagnosing car trouble.  The two fully-equipped garage bays were rented by the hour and he had to go over tool inventory with each customer pre- and post-rental.  Never a dull moment. 

    The guidance counselor helped me get the job, my first non-farm work.  For five years, I had been toiling in the fields fifteen miles south of the station, in the middle of nowhere, on our farm.

Out here in the fields
I fight for my meals
I get my back into my living  

    I was a senior with the social awareness and skills of a 13-year old and needed to expand my vistas.  Or at least do something I could put on my college applications.  I now had real responsibility, handling money, dealing with the public, and doling out apologies.

    The manager’s name was Don Wesson.  He kind of looked—and acted—like Humphrey Bogart, hair slicked back, weathered face, the short sleeves of his name-bearing yellow shirt rolled up.  I admired the way Don ran the place.  He really had a nose for the job, and didn’t take any crap.  He looked like the kind of guy you’d want minding the station. He was nice to me but I couldn't help wondering if he was a bit perplexed as to why I was hired for this.

     Back in those days, Shell had an ad campaign that touted the knowledge of their attendants:  Ask the Shell Answer Man.  The company issued me a crisp, brown pair of coveralls with a bright yellow Shell patch sewn on the breast.  I would’ve looked resplendent, but at sixteen, sporting braces, geeky wire-rimmed glasses, and a pencil neck, I probably looked like a kid dressing up for Halloween as a mechanic.  

    One day I came to school in a short-sleeved golf shirt that had a colored body and a white collar.  So when I got into my coveralls, the white collar was all you could see.  Don remarked that I looked like a priest.  I knew nothing about religion but even back then, in the late seventies, I didn’t like the sound of that. 

     I was book smart but had zero mechanical skills. My older brother was a pretty good mechanic and we all had dirt bikes.  My physicist dad studied mechanical engineering and could fix/build anything. He had a small Cessna for trips to Chicago.  I don't remember him ever taking flying lessons but there were some issues of Flying magazine lying around in the john. He built a sawmill at our farm from scratch. Built our tennis court. We were quite self-sufficient out there. But I could barely change a spark plug.  

    Another thing I knew nothing about was women.  Teenagers today don’t have that problem.  With the internet all you have to do is go to the How Stuff Works website, type in “women,” and everything you need to know is right there.  Don was very knowledgeable about women; I could overhear him talking to some of the ladies. Thinking back on it 35 years later, he probably went home to an empty house every night like police chief Gillespie in the film In the Heat of the Night.  

(to be cont'd)