Tale of Two Cities

I told you those stories so I could tell you this one. I told Russell I was going to be including the stories about him in my blog. He was okay with that, then I told him what stories I was going to write about and he was a little bit worried. He knows me pretty well it turns out even though we had not seen or spoken in over 20 years. As it turns out he liked what I wrote (although he remembers some of it differently than I do but hey, it's my blog so I have final word) in fact he sent me an email that after I read it I decided I would edit down a bit and then include here in my blog so you might get a better understanding of Russell. With that in mind I let Russell take over as guest writer.


Cheekies (some names have been changed to protect the not so innocent.-Ed.),
Ok not so bad even tho you got a few things wrong, but I get the editing for dramatic effect and all so I'll give you a passadena. I told you after we left Texas we went to Mass and then Pheonix right? Well let me tell you coming back out here has been culture shock for me, but I am refamiliarizing myself with the area. But I gotta ask you where do you people learn how to drive? From what I can tell this is the handbook they give you when you apply for a liscence here.


NJ Drivers Manual

1. Turn signals will give away your next move. A confident New Jersey Driver avoids using them.

2. Under no circumstance should you maintain a safe distance between you and the car in front of you, because the space will be filled in by somebody else, putting you in an even more dangerous situation.

3. The faster you drive through a red light, the less chance you have of getting hit.

4. WARNING! Never come to a complete stop at a stop sign. No one expects it and it will result in your being rear-ended.

5. Never get in the way of an older car that needs extensive bodywork, especially with PA, NY or DE plates. With no insurance, the other operator probably has nothing to lose.

6. Braking is to be done as hard and late as possible to ensure that your ABS kicks in, giving a vigorous foot massage as the brake pedal violently pulsates. For those of you without ABS, it's a chance to strengthen your leg muscles.

7. Never pass on the left when you can pass on the right. It's a good way to prepare other drivers entering the highway.

8. Speed limits are arbitrary figures; given only as a suggestion and are not enforceable in New Jersey during rush hour.

9. Just because you're in the left lane and have no room to speed up or move over doesn't mean that a New York driver flashing his high beams behind you doesn't think he can go faster in your spot.

10. Always brake and rubberneck when you see an accident or even someone changing a tire. This is seen as a sign of respect for the victim.

11. Learn to swerve abruptly without signaling. New Jersey is the home of high-speed slalom-driving thanks to the Department of Transportation, which puts potholes in key locations to test drivers' reflexes and keep them alert.

12. It is tradition in New Jersey to honk your horn at cars in front of you that do not move three milliseconds after the light turns green.

13. Remember that the goal of every New Jersey driver is to get ahead of the pack by whatever means necessary.

14. In New Jersey, 'flipping the bird' is considered a polite salute. This gesture should always be returned.

Hope you like that, and hey are most of the people that read your blog thing from NJ?

See ya
Russell


(this ends the guest writer's part of the blog)


All I can say is welcome back and it's our state, get used to it! Also I know why Russell put in #4, he got rear ended doing exactly that very thing a few weeks ago. Um, what's ABS? You're way over my head on this one! For #11 you can thank us later. As for #12, you're goddamn right, I got shit to do, why else are the horns there? The goal in #13 should be everyones, what's the problem? "Flipping the bird", as you put it, is our state bird. Man, do you have a lot to get reaquainted with. Now if you would get registered you could comment on the blog you have now helped create (hint hint).

Live Together, Die Alone

Ok, so here's the story; like I mentioned in my last blog, in the fall of that year, during my junior year of high school, I saw a boy (man? he was 17, you tell me), lose "one of his boys" to the top of a chain link fence very much like the one pictured above in this blog. It was during second period gym class, for that part of the semester the activity was tennis. As I had said the tennis courts were surrounded by the aforementioned chain link fence. It was somewhere in the second week of tennis class, after we had done some fundamentals work and learned grip, stroke, pressure, speed, force, thrust, ... hey, we are still talking about tennis, right? Anyway, all the boring getting to know your racket crap was out of the way and it was time for us to split up into teams and play mixed doubles. We had to split up into guy/girl teams and Kathy Louis was my partner. This kind of has a Rustler connection in that she was the sister of the guy Meg was dating for awhile. His name was Steve, that's all I remember except for the time he got kicked by a horse, maybe you remember that too, Cerpts. But I digest, or something or other. After we picked partners they made a chart for us to play a round robin tournament. As luck would have it, I was actually pretty good at tennis, I was athletic back then. So was Kathy, she was the catcher for the softball team and the goalie for field hockey or maybe it was lacrosse. So, obvious, she was tough. Also later in life a lesbian, but that's not PERT-inent to the story ... or is it? Actually it's not I was just trickin'. So we are playing a match against another team, no idea who the girl was, but the guy was a teammate of mine on the football team, Robert Lee. No his middle name didn't start with an "E" it was Albert. Yeah, I had to ask. He was half Asian and half Puerto Rican. He also sat behind me in English class, this will come into play later. Anyway, back to that fateful tennis match; even though Robert was athletic as well, his partner was not. Kathy and I was doing a pretty good job of kicking their butts when Robert hit a shot back to me. It was one of the biggest lobs I had ever seen. Suddenly my racket seemed to be three times it's actual size, the ball was in slow motion, and we had a pretty big lead. This seemed like a perfect time to do my best Greg Luzinski impression (he was a baseball player on the Phillies back then, I almost said Mike Schmidt, but he's a dick) I wound the racket back and crushed it with a two handed forehand and lifted it up, up, up, and over the chain link fence that was around the tennis court. The number one rule of tennis in gym class was if you sent the ball over the fence you had to go get it. Two teams, one match, one ball. How odd, I should make the last part of that statement, but I'm jumping ahead of myself. Robert looked at me and said "Nice one asshole!". To which I dropped my racket and celebrated with my best "It's outta here!" Harry Kalas impression (he was and still is the announcer for the Phillies, he also does the NFL films commentary now since John Fascenda died a few years back.) So Robert says; "Now go get it." Here's a little more info about the layout of the tennis courts and the offending fence; there was only one door that led onto and off of the tennis courts. The door was two courts down and on Robert's side of the courts. So I replied "C'mon man, you're closer." Apparently Robert had been paying attention during science class or whatever class you are in when you learn the rule that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. So instead of going over to the door, exiting the tennis courts, and getting the ball, Robert decides he's going to go over the fence. Now this fence had to be about 10 or 12 feet tall. In the middle of the fence there was a metal pole that was for support that went all the way around the courts. Robert quickly jumped up, used this pole for support as well as a jumping off point for his feet in order to scale the second half of the fence. As he got to the top, where there was no more support, and it was exactly as pictured above, Robert swung one leg over and tried to use the pressure grip method with the toe of his sneaker as he went to swing the other leg over. His toe was about a foot or two from reaching the support bar and I guess he figured his foot would catch it as he slid down. Well, he never had the chance to test this theory however, because as he went to swing the second leg over, his foot other foot slipped. In other words he crotched the top of the chain link fence. All of the air immediately went out of Robert (this wasn't the only thing that would be coming out of my teammate this beautiful October morning), then he started moaning and screaming in agony. I ran over to him and asked if he was alright as I tried to stop laughing. He then informed me that the fence went into his balls. Of course my only answer was "What?", as I felt my own stomach lurch, flip upside down, and then spin back around. He once again informed me, a little louder this time, and with a lot more panic in his voice, that the fence went into his balls. I believe his exact words were: "I think the fence skewered my nut!" I yelled for the gym teacher, Mr. Kelley. He was still oblivious at this point to what was going on and what had happened. He immediately told Robert to get down off of the fence. I told him that I didn't think that was possible. He started walking over and I decided to meet him half way. It was about this time that someone else noticed the blood that was now drenching Robert's white gym shorts, the fence, and even dripping onto the tennis court. I looked back and my brain had a difficult time of processing the information my eyes were transferring to it. As Mr. Kelley asked to nobody in particular, "What the hell happened to him?", I realized my friends blood was all over the fence, and not just any blood, it was nut blood. I then told Mr. Kelley that I thought the fence was in Robert's balls. So he continued to walk towards Robert and told me to go get the nurse, which I did as fast as my fat ass could go. I ran into the school, into the nurses office and quickly blurted "We need you at the tennis courts, Robert Lee's nuts are on the fence. The nurse looked dumbfounded. She asked me if I thought we needed 911, to which I said I thought that might be a good idea. So she called them and then we went back to the tennis courts. In the time it took me to go get the nurse and for her to call 911 everyone except for Mr. Kelley was back in the school. Well, Robert was still there too, duh! I told Mr. Kelley we had called 911 and he told me to go get one of the janitors and see if they could bring out the cherry picker. If you don't know what a cherry picker is I'll try and describe it; it's like a ladder, with a landing and a little compartment for you to stand on,think of one of those little basket type ladder things that are on the PSE&G trucks that they use to raise them up to work on telephone poles. Well, that's what a cherry picker is. The one we had at the school was one you had to push around as it was on wheels. By the time me and two janitors got back to the tennis courts with the cherry picker an ambulance and a cop had arrived. the cop wanted a statement which I had to give him and the paramedics thought the cherry picker was pretty useful idea. So they erected the ladder and one of them climbed up and began to examine Robert who was now quieter than he had been a few minutes prior. Of course that was because he was in shock as the paramedic was quick to point out. That's pretty understandable. Every little movement sent waves of pain through Robert's body to the point he had faded in and out of consciousness a couple of times while perched on the top of the ball piercing fence. Then the paramedic that was checking out Robert said to the other "Call West Jersey, and ask if they want us to cut the fence or extract on the scene." I had no idea what that meant but it didn't sound as bad as it was going to get. Mr. Kelley then told me that when I finished telling the police what happened I could go inside and get ready to go to my next class. Robert then spoke up and said "No, I want him here." Mr. Kelley said it was okay if I wanted to stay and I figured I was partially responsible so it was the least I could do. How I soon wished I had decided to leave then and there. I finished telling the cop what had happened and came over to Robert and told him to hold on they we going to get him down real soon. Now he told me the fence was ripping his ball and his sack. My stomach did it's acrobatics again a little more seriously this time. The paramedic that was on the radio in the ambulance said and I quote "West Jersey said extract on sight and apply pressure packs until arrival.". That didn't sound good I had decided pretty quickly but I tried to make it sound like a good thing to Robert. "They are going to get you down now man.", I told him. He didn't respond, I think he was as close to fainting as he could get without actually doing it. The paramedic who was up on the ladder then gave Robert a needle. Yeah, in the balls! I'm getting queasy just writing this now. Well, apparently "extract on site" meant "take out the testicle and leave it dangling on the fence" because that was what they did. After they lifted Robert off of the fence (a few ounces lighter as well as a pint or two of blood lighter), it took me a few minutes to stop staring at my friends testicle that was now hanging on the fence. It wasn't as big as I had expected nor as round. It kinda looked like a bloody chicken dumpling. The paramedics put Robert on a stretcher and put him in the ambulance. While the one started an iv and got his vital signs (Robert was thankfully unconscious by now either from pain or drugs, I don't know which to this day), the other one removed the destroyed testicle and placed it in a blue bag. On the bag written in large black block letters were the words: Medical Waste. A few minutes ago it was a testicle inside the body of a seventeen year old and now it was "medical waste". I looked at the paramedic and asked him if they could save it and he told me it was almost impossible. So fast forward a week or so and Robert is back in school and he is sitting behind me in English class. I asked him how he was and he said it still hurt some and I apologized and sad I felt like it was my fault which he of course said it wasn't. Then he told me something I never expected him to tell me. He told me he had an artificial nut. It was made out of silicone (just like a breast implant apparently). To which I asked "What?!" And then just for good measure added; "Why?!" The answer was surprisingly convincing, Robert had asked the plastic surgeon for it. Robert felt that later in life when he might be "getting busy", as he put it, he didn't want a girl to be going down there and feeing around and only feel one ball. That was the end of our conversation about his nut, ever. Sometimes I think about it and wonder if they could have put a little zipper in his sack, maybe even like a stint so he could open the sack and close it thereby allowing him to have a variety of different balls to place inside. You know, holiday and special occasion theme balls. A little jingly one for Christmas, one shaped like an egg for Easter. Or maybe even a squeaky one like they put in dog toys. Now there is a conversation piece!

Three Minutes

A few days after the incident at the tennis courts (those tennis courts, months later, would also be the site of the first and only time I saw someone literally loose a testicle on the fence surrounding it, if you don't know the story, remind me sometime and I will tell it, as gingerly as possible of course) Russell's seat in first period English class was empty. I really didn't think anything of it at the time, he had been through enough lately and if he was sick, it was understandable. After English I saw a girl in the hallways who lived a few doors down from Russell, she stopped me in the hall and asked if I had heard about Russell's sister. I told her I had not. That was how I found out she had died. I didn't wait for Russell to come back to school to hear from him what had happened, as soon as I got home I called his house. He answered the phone and I realized I had no idea what to say. Then I remembered what he had told me "Just be my friend."
"Russell, man, it's Chris, look I know you probably don't feel like talking but if you need anything or want to talk to someone, just call."
I didn't want to bother him anymore as I started to feel a little bit embarrassed by the fact that my morbid curiosity was more of the reason I called than out of concern for him and his father.
"That's all I wanted to tell you. Bye." As I started to take the phone from my ear he said "Thanks. I'll be in school Monday." And then we hung up. Now the cold bastard in me, even back then it occasionally reared its ugly head, starting assessing the situation and came up with one solid fact: A mother dying from cancer merited almost two weeks from school, a sister who commits suicide only a few days. But I was in no position to judge. Russell wasn't in school on Monday after all, nor was I, as they had decided the funeral would be held on Monday. I went along with about a dozen other kids I went to school with. The funeral was as most funerals are; sad, morbid, and painfully long. What made this one different was the conversation I had with Russell for a few minutes outside of the funeral home. The funeral was at Bradley's funeral home, some of you might know where that is and it's not important to the story now that I think about it, but anyway, we went outside and Russell motioned for me to sneak around back with him. I figured that meant we were going to have a smoke. We lit our Parliament Lights that Russell supplied and I noticed my friend was more himself than he had been in the last month. He wasn't taking his sisters passing as hard as he had his mothers apparently, then I noticed something even more shocking, Russell was pissed.
"Can't believe the stupid bitch did it." He told me.
"What?" I asked, not believing what I had just heard.
"Kill herself, that was stupid." Russell even began to laugh a little now. Still unbelieving, I remained silent. "She said she was going to do it and I told her she was an idiot to think about it. Said she didn't want to live without mom around."
"Wow, that's rough.", was all I could muster to say.
"I know she took Mom dying and all hard but did she think I didn't?" Russell flicked his cigarette into the tall scrub grass that grew in the back of the funeral parlor where his dead sisters body was lying. "I told her she needed to get a grip and get some help, and not the kind of help that comes from pills in a little orange bottle either, but she didn't listen. She never did"
I was getting uncomfortable with the conversation but I had to stand there and listen, that's what a friend does after all, right?
"She left a note." Russell informed me next. "Sorry Daddy, blah blah blah, I miss Mommy, and I want to go be with her. Blah blah blah." Was basically how the note read , Russell is good at paraphrasing.
"Jesus, Russell, that sucks." I was good at stating the obvious.
"Yeah especially since she won't be seeing Mom now. You don't get there by killing yourself." Russell started to walk back to the front of the funeral parlor. "She was stupid, and selfish. And now I gotta bury her." Russell had grown up more than should be expected of anyone his age in the past few months. I didn't know what this meant for our friendship. As I said, I wouldn't get long to find out either. Two weeks after we finished school for the year, Russell's father was told by his superior officer that he was being reassigned to Texas. On July 5, 1984 Russell and his father moved out of the yellow house in Alluvium Lakes, and out of New Jersey. We said we would write, and for a while, we did. I don't know if it was him or me that failed to eventually respond to the others letter, but it doesn't matter at this point. Now over twenty years later Russell is/was a distant memory. Very distorted, and very foggy. Sort of like the camera angles at this years Superbowl (thanks CBS!). Then a weird set of circumstances led me to Lakeview cemetery in Cherry Hill during the late summer of last year. A coworker's mother died and I went to the funeral. I ended up going to the grave site as well. During part of the funeral at the cemetery, I noticed we were just a few graves down from where Russell's mother and sister were buried. That's when I started to remember all of this story, and none of this would have appeared on my blog, except for the fact that a few minutes after we had all decided it was time to do the "drop the flower on the coffin thing", I saw someone who I thought I recognized standing a little bit away from the group and was near other graves.
It was Russell.
We talked for a while, exchanged phone numbers (he move back out here two years ago, well kind of near here, West Chester Pa. to be exact), hugged and then went on with our day. As I walked back to my car I thought of what a weird coincidence that was, sometimes you're just meant to be somewhere I guess. I gave one last glance back to Russell and the pair of graves. A large bouquet of flowers was on the grave to my left, his mothers grave. On his sisters there was one single rose. For Russell, I guess, some things are hard to forgive.

?

To my friend Russell, with whom I slept, how long has it been since we spoke? Well, if you asked me about six months ago the answer would have been "a really long time". The last time I had heard anything from or concerning Russell (with two "L's" he made sure to tell me when I first met him in the third grade) was the early summer of 1984. I still remember sitting on the front porch of his little yellow house in Alluvium Lakes with his boom box playing our most favoritest songs. When Doves Cry, Dancing In The Dark, and What's Love Got To Do With It blasted from the speakers. Russell had the best boom box of anybody I knew, it had a dual cassette that allowed you to copy directly from one tape to another with just pushing two buttons. That was high tech shit back then man. We went to school together for seven years. His father was a career military man and they, along with his mother and older sister, had moved here from California when he was 8. We ended up going to school together at E. T. Hamilton School somewhere over in Voorhees. I don't know if I could find the school again on a bet, I don't know if it even still exists. Although I still remember where Russell lived. Last time I drove by, the house was still there. It's Tudor Brown now not Lampost Yellow. I still remember that was the name of the paint color that we used when we helped his father paint it back in 1980. It was the year the Phillies won the World Series. That's my thought process on remembering when it was anyway, Russell swears it was 1981. But back to 1984. We were just starting to celebrate finishing our sophomore year of high school, which was the second best year of school, to me, ever, senior year being the best. Not so good for Russell. Around Christmas vacation that year (I guess that would be '83 at this point), Russells' mother found out she had cancer. An inoperable brain tumor the doctors told the family. Of course they were welcome to seek a second opinion if they liked but it would probably be the same result. The prognosis was grim, the cancer was at a fairly advanced stage. They said four to six months. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. They were off by a few weeks. She died Valentine's Day of '84. Russell took it hard. The entire family took it hard. As would be expected. His sister, whose name escapes me, took it even harder. She overdosed on some sort of pills, alas, I can't remember what they were either (I think a sort of sleeping pill), two months to the day that her mother had died. Two thirds of an entire family was gone in the blink of an eye. Russell, who had came back to school at the end of February after his mother passed, was different. He was a lot quieter, a lot more serious, and it seemed, anyway, a lot older. At least more mature. Your mother wasting away in front of your eyes can have that effect apparently. Russell and I were still in three classes together, and we still had that unspoken friendship but we were now distant. Probably caused by my inability to know how to deal with a situation like this. This continued until a few days before his sister would die. Russell was outside at the tennis courts before first period one early April morning smoking a cigarette. This was back then when you could smoke in school, on the property, anyway, and the area around the tennis courts was the appointed area at Eastern Regional High School for smoking. Like I said, we were sophomores and although I played sports, I still smoked occasionally, everybody did back then. I joined Russell at the tennis courts, luckily my bus dropped me off near the smoking area and I was concerned about him, like I was every day, except I noticed who else was around the smoking area, so that made me more worried. Two of the schools biggest bullies were also there. I won't give their names but I still remember them to this day. Funny what sticks in your mind and what falls through the cracks. I could see the look on their faces and they were getting ready to start trouble as I walked up to Russell. I asked him for a cigarette and he handed me a Parliament Light. He smoked them because he liked the recessed filters so that meant, to him anyway, that they weren't as bad for you as the "cowboy killers". That's what he called Marlboros. He handed me one and a lighter. The fact that he carried a lighter impressed upon me the fact that he was a serious smoker, even back then. I didn't carry cigarettes on me let alone matches or a lighter. Now, nearly twenty three years later, he hasn't smoked for almost ten years, I, on the other hand, am good for anywhere between a pack and a half to two packs and even though they are supposed to be "ultra lights", they are of the "Cowboy Killer" variety. Anyway, back to my story. Too late to say "to make a long story short" that option ran out a few sentences ago. The two bullies were seniors, and that meant we were mortal enemies. In the normal high school hierarchy, seniors are always the top dogs. Sophomores, are like the lowliest of the working middle class. The freshman, like the homeless, are there just to show us how bad it could be. For some reason, possibly caused by some rift in the fabric of time, our sophomore class was as big, as bad, and as popular as the seniors. Sure we couldn't drive to school, we didn't have senior study hall, but the one thing we did have that the seniors didn't was we were the winners of Spirit Week. Traditionally, the seniors won this honor and won it walking away. For only the second time in school history had a class other than the seniors won Spirit Week. The first time it happened it was the juniors that won. So this made it even worse. The seniors were, for a while, the laughing stock of the school by the underclassmen and faculty alike. I can remember my teacher telling a senior in science class to be quiet or he would sick a sophomore on him. That senior was now standing near us at the tennis courts, the sophomore the teacher was talking about was Russell. They were making fun of something or other about Russell or me and doing it loud enough for us to hear. Russell heeled out his smoke and glared at the two idiots. "Shut up, assholes." He told them. That was all they needed. One of them asked "And what if we don't? You gonna run home and cry to Mommy?" That would have been enough for Russell, but before it even had time to register and for that switch to flip, the other one added; "Oh that's right, you can't cause you're Mommy's dead!" Yelling as he got to the end of the unbelievably hurtful statement. The switch that had already been flipped, now blew a fuse. Russell went beserk. For what seemed to me to be about five seconds, only long enough for me to get out "That's really f...." the "...ucked up" part of the sentence only one of them could have heard because with one punch the bullies numbers had been cut in half. At least the conscious ones were cut in half. Russell knocked out the first one, "Mr. Runhomeandcrytomommy", with one wild swing. A noise I had never heard from a human being, let alone anything living, exploded out of Russell. I don't think Russell purposefully targeted him first, I think just the unlucky draw of being the first one Russell reached was all it took for him to be the first to suffer the pent up rage Russell now released. It wasn't just the words they said that got the reaction. It was the fact that Russell just needed an excuse. He had no one to release the rage upon, until now. The force of the blow caused Russell to fall back himself, into the chain link fence around the tennis courts, head first. The fact that a rough section of fence tore a gash big enough that would later require fourteen stitches to close didn't stop Russell from now going after "Mr. Causeyourmommysdead". Unlike his buddy, "Mr. Causeyourmommysdead" didn't go down after one punch. It took three. The two morons, got up and left as I tried to attend to my hurt friend. Although, he had "won" the fight, blood was pouring down his face. I was in a panic. Luckily this was the time when those paisley bandannas were in style. You know the ones that nearly everybody had back then. I had a red one in my back pocket and I used it to start tying to stop the bleeding. Russell cringed and jumped back. He shoved me away and said "Ouch, don't man, I'm okay." To which I replied; "Then Russell, I don't know what to do for you, tell me what I can do for you!" I don't know if the question was meant to be as deep as Russell took it, I admit I was almost in tears when I asked it so he might have thought I meant it differently, but I don't think I asked it the way he answered it. He stood there looking at me, blood now drenching the collar of his grey "Member's Only" jacket (remember those?) turning it black. He fell to one knee and just started to sob as he answered me. "Just be my friend man, just be my friend." And that's what I did until the summer of '84 when his father got the orders he was being reassigned to a base in Texas.

To be continued...

Two For The Road

An Open Letter To The Guy That Works At The Gas Station

Dear Sir,

First allow me to begin by saying I am not a person who usually complains about the blue collar working man and/or woman, especially those that have to deal with customer service issues. I deal with people myself on a daily basis seeing as I work in retail. I know as well as the next guy that the normal paying customer can be a pain in the ass with a world of aggravation and some to spare. This, however, does not give you the right to provide me with horrendous customer service and expect me to accept and pay for said service without opening my mouth. I don't know where you are from, I assume though, from your accent you don't get choked up from hearing a rousing rendition of Born In The USA. Actually I don't either although I can assure you I am a true red, white, and blue-blooded American son of a bitch and if you knew my mother you would know I speak the truth. Since I am one-quarter Native American Indian I am truly one of the very first of the original gangstas. Even though my heritage is lost, watered down, or otherwise MIA, mostly due to the fact that after that first fateful Thanksgiving all the Indians decided they now wanted to become members of the Fakahwe tribe (you know the ones that walked around the Midwest for years asking "Where the f*ck are we?), I still deserve to be treated as a valued customer. If the shoe was on the other foot and you pulled into my gas station I would have served you differently than you did me. I feel that I need to note here that although I did say "my gas station" I do not really think it is in fact your gas station. I mean if it is, that's cool, in fact it might be better if it is since there is no way you will still be open and operating come Mother's Day with the type of customer service you are offering. But I digress. Oh, that means I got lost in my own thoughts and wandered off the subject, but I assure you I will not leave you dragging through this quagmire any longer than I need to. Oh, again I apologize, a quagmire, is, well, never mind just forget it. You do, after all, have customers you need to ignore and argue with, now don't you. As I was saying, let's reverse the situation and make you the customer and I will put on the crooked hat with the bent up rim of "Gomer Pyle: Pump Jockey". The first thing I would have done as soon as I was able to is I would have approached your car window and said something to the effect of "Hi, can I help you?" and then waited for you to tell me the amount and type of gas you wanted me, Gomer Pyle: Pump Jockey, to stick down you automobiles waiting gullet. As you can see I, unlike you, would not have continued the conversation I was having with the other guy at the station. Which brings me to a question, was he a new hire and were you training him? Because if so, I hope I was the example of what not to do. Anyway, let's say you wanted the same type and amount of gas I did, so after you told me that you required me to dispense twenty (20 see that's what that number looks like) dollars of regular petrol I would have removed your gas cap, removed the nozzle from the pump, put in 20 on the preset dial (which by the way comes in real handy and I suspect you might be using that little feature a little more in the future;). Then I would have placed the nozzle in the cars tank tube and began to give Malibu Barbie (that's my cars name you uncivilized man beast) a little drinkie pooh. Having done all of this correctly would have resulted in me getting twenty dollars of gas, instead the pump continued to pump until my little flirt on wheels was all filled up. Before you say anything, I know that is a lot of things to do and remember but no one held a gun to your head when you applied for the job, now did they? If they had told you all of this at the interview perhaps you would have opted for the brain surgeon career, that might have been a little easier. I guess you didn't notice me trying to get your attention, I mean I only waved at you, banged on my window, and flashed the crisp twenty dollar bill at you. Of course, how could you see me, you were still talking, still oblivious, and still stupid. You exited your little douche bag aquarium and when you walked by my car I informed you that I only asked for twenty to which you replied "Twenty?". Here's a little exercise I want you to do, do it a few times if you need. Ask anybody else who might be in the room with you to participate as well, it might help and make this easier. What I want you to do is say these two things to yourself - "Twenty dollars" and "Fill it up" and tell me do they sound the same? The easy answer here is no, they don't, not in any language. Now we had a problem. Many years ago, for a few months, I too worked at a gas station. Hey, times were hard so shut up! During those few months I never over pumped, not once, not even by a penny. You know why? Because I used the preset numbers on the pump, idiot. Of course if I had ever over pumped I would not have complained, argued, or whined about it. All of which you did, even going as far as tell me you were going to call the police and report me for theft of $3.55 of gas. Now I don't know if you did write down my license plate number like you said and called the police but I do know this; if I get a knock on my door and have to answer questions about the "Three dollar bandit" this won't be the last you hear from me. I know where you work, at least for now you do anyway. After I left and thought about it for a little while I realized I would have done something different and no it wouldn't have been to give you the money so it didn't have to come out of your pocket as you were so quick to point out. I don't care, and yeah by the way, I did have it on me. So you got punked. But as I was saying, the one thing I would have done differently is if I had known you were going to pump my car until it was full regardless of how much I asked for, I would have only asked for ten bucks! So when your paycheck is three and a half bucks lighter than usual let this be a lesson to you. Listen to the customer, and do what they ask you to do, it is, after all, only your job. Oh, and the other thing, don't fuck with the Cheekies! And next time you best squeegee my windows if you know what's good for you!