Back at the gas station another day, the 14 year old, now slightly seasoned and more confident pump jockey nearly always came up to a customer in a car to ask the standard questions:  “Fill’er up and check the oil?” Sometimes we would say, “Good afternoon.  How may I help you today?”  While some of the exact details have flaked away over the cascade of years, you know, the important ones stick like peanut butter in your mouth on a hot day.

I do remember this: When I saw her roll down her window, I knew I had to immediately puff out my chest and use my deepest, manly macho voice which of course had only recently been introduced to puberty.  She drove a red mustang and she was a hot, long haired 20 something blonde goddess.  So as soon as I walked up to her window, prepared with my manly speech, she beat me to it!

Showing me the luscious drip of her honey sweet smile, she said, “Fill’ er up sweetie.  And if you don’t mind checking my oil, it would be wonderful!”

“Yes Ma’am.  Um, right away!”  Her smile was so bright it blinded me from noticing her eyelids batting 300, but I enjoyed the cool breeze they produced.

I slowly started filling her tank, making sure I put it on the slowest flow speed to maximize the length of time spent with this sultry symphony of feminine perfection.  So of course, I started washing her windows with long slow strokes – first the passenger side, and that gave me a sneak view of her long legs topped off by a miniskirt that briefly stopped the endless flow of legs. Then, I slowly walked over and washed her side, twice. She smiled and jiggled her ample front for me while I worked, then she primped her I assume, ass length hair, and since she didn’t seem in a hurry, I checked her oil twice and thankfully, she needed some, and I walked over and showed her the stick.

“You’re a quart low ma’am.”

“Ok honey. Go ahead and put some lube, I mean oil in, ok?”

“Right away, I’m on it.”  I walked into the station, grabbed a can of Quaker State, took two deep breaths and came out and gave her engine the quart it needed.

She gave me cash, I gave her the change, hopefully without shaking too much, and she drove away, and I stared at the back of her car, but because I was mesmerized by the apparition that just appeared, I forgot to take the gas nozzle out of her tank and it jerked away and hit the cement as she left, spewing gas on the concrete.  She never stopped, so I am sure she was completely unaware, probably still primping in her mirror.  I quickly turned off the pump and replaced the nozzle in the pump holder and thankfully, I didn’t blow up the whole freakin gas station or neighboring businesses up.

And oh yeah, thankfully, the boss wasn’t there at that moment.

I kept looking for that Mustang to come back again for the remainder of that summer job, and I must admit, so did all my fellow jockeys,  but I don’t remember if she ever returned, at least during my shift.  Maybe she went off back to college, became a popular um, “dancer”, or a Victoria Secret model, or worse yet, married some low life muscle head. I’m far from being bitter because hell, it took me only a few decades to recover. It was her loss. Sure, I was just a scrawny pump jockey with blue eyes who smelled like gasoline and owned no cigarettes, but who would’ve guessed that I was going to be where I am today.

SRC