The Answer Man (Part 2)

(con'd from Apr 5)

    Weekdays my shift started at 4:00 and finished at 10:00.  For the most part, I kept busy and enjoyed the job.  The pumps back then had heavy-guage wire spiralling the length of the nozzle, so you could hang it on the side of the car and go do something else while it filled. When you pulled the nozzle out of  old pump number three, the wraps of wire would play on the thin metal siding, and it made a “Bah DAH dah dah dah” sound, like the drum riff that begins every reggae song.  I sometimes wondered what it would sound like if a customer drove away with the nozzle still stuck in their tank.  Decidedly less peaceful than reggae, no doubt.

    What bothered me was when I didn’t have time to adequately mind the garage and prevent theft.  There were two blockheads who came in a lot to hang around, and eventually I told them the garage wasn’t available.  “Mr Sullivan said that until further notice the bays aren’t for rent.  There’s a problem with fluids leaking,” or something.  They weren’t buying it.  I probably should have told Mr Sullivan about these two guys, but what was I going to say?  “Well, Mr Sullivan, I can’t say for sure that they’re stealing because I didn’t have them sign off on the pre-rent inventory.  Well, because I was too busy.” 

  

    By around 8:30 things started to slow down.  Sodas from the machine were 40 cents, and the coffee back in the employees area was free, so I’d get hopped up on coffee, sit behind the desk and listen to the radio.  I had put in a good day's work and now I was sitting in Don's chair. In the lair of all that practical knowledge. He had various reference books w/ part numbers and so forth. There was glossy promotional material for all the Shell products. Don really knew the service station game.  I was ensconced in the wheelhouse of Answer Man wisdom while Mick Jagger reminded me that "Some girls they're so pure
Some girls so corrupt
Some girls give me children
I only made love to her once"   

    One night, I thought to look in the big bottom drawer of Don's desk. 

    What I found in there was a trove of nasty porn: an assortment of messy, extreme men’s magazines anchored by Hustler.  Up until that point in my life, I’d only seen a few Playboys with my older brother's friends up in the sugar house. I closed the drawer. 

    Now that I’m thinking about it, I’d seen an issue of a classy French magazine called lui while in Quebec with the French Club.  It emphasized natural beauty, the photos being set in the pretty countryside, the models holding up pears in the orchard, that sort of thing.

    Nobody wants to be the last to know what's what.  After carefully surveying the garage area and checking for any activity outside, I delved in:  “What the… Oh, my.  So that’s how it is.  The lay of the land threw me.  Women had certainly changed from the days of bucolic frolic.  All at once I was glad that I wasn’t a female, yet resentful of being a male.

 

     I thought about what kind of man Don is, and how he seemed so different from Mr Sullivan, who was very quiet, very tall and rather intimidating in the slow, deliberate way that he moved.

      So I would get my chores out of the way, sell some refined crude, put the dwindling complement of tools back, then settle in for that last hour.  The desk would beckon to me, and I’d head in with another hot cup of creamy, sugary coffee.  It’s strange.  I’m realizing now that it would be another year or so before my first bone-density self exam with the Sears catalog. I must've been four years behind most guys, I guess.  Those evenings... wired on free coffee... poring over porn... then I’d just lock up, drive home and go to sleep.  Unresolved.  Unfathomable.

    Mr Sullivan almost never showed up, but of course, the time he did, on a Sunday afternoon, there were a few issues of adult entertainment out on the desk.  The big picture window in front of the desk did not afford a view of the north entrance to the station.  The second that Mr. Sullivan passed in front of the window, I threw the smut into the big drawer and sprang to my feet, trying not to look too freaked out.  While the Answer Man coveralls do indeed hide many sins, they couldn't begin to cover how bad I felt about myself at that moment.  He came through the front door and turned into the office.  He didn’t say much, but seemed to be in a bad mood. 

    He wasn't accusing me of anything (at least I don't think he was) but he was disappointed.
   

    The next time I reported for work, I noticed a sign on the wall behind the register saying that at no time should employees be sitting around doing nothing.  If the station is slow, there is a long list of jobs that need doing.  I felt sheepish and guilty.  Then again, Don obviously looked at these publications, and he did a bang-up job running the place.  Maybe a bit of animal spirits is conducive to properly running a service station. 

(to be cont'd)