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.
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.
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)
(to be cont'd)
