Pump Jockey

The title sounds a bit salacious. It's one of the many names from the past for the guys who filled up your car with gas, washed your windows and checked your oil. Hey, it was pretty much only guys.

I was reminded of my desire to become a pump jockey during the weekend in Oregon. Oregon, along with New Jersey still doesn't have self-serve gas pumps. By law, the rumpled guys still skitter out to your car, pull out the gas nozzle and take your money. Laissez-faire skeletons. It's like legislating the Shakers back into existence.

Running a gas station for me was something to covet. Of course I had no experience as a mechanic or manager. A dearth of choices often leads to bad choices. I knew that I had to make money somehow. I truly admired these guys throughout my childhood. For many years, I couldn't think of anything better to become.

It wasn't a promising starting place for me: "he liked the smell of gas (leaded did smell different, sweeter), wanted to handle the squeegee, and was enchanted by the whole grimy aesthetic." No, not what my parents encouraged.

Who's to say what I found fascinating here. You can divorce any shiny ideas you might have about the modern miracle of 50's gas stations. It wasn't like that. In small town Geneva, gas stations looked like Hopper, but without the mystery.