I had to put gas in the van the other day. I was in a hurry, I hadn't planned well at all. It might have been okay, save for the patrons in front of me. I could call them people, but I am not just sure they were human.
There was a little guy...gal...guy, little fart anyway. Dressed in jeans, a jean vest and a plaid shirt, flat chested, but wearing decidedly feminine glasses on a chain. The haircut was very butch, but I tried to remember my grandmother wore hers that short for the last decade of her 95 yrs, so perhaps this was a woman, but we will call this person "little fart".
Then, there was Doofus. Now Doofus had a female hair cut. The sides were shaved and shaped, but the top was looked like a brown dust mop (and probably would have done a great job as one). Doofus had on a cordouroy coat (yes, in August, a cordouroy coat) and a pair of jeans.
Now, Doofus was putting gas under the plate of this old car they were driving. Little fart was watching. LF goes over and gets a paper towel to write on. LF stares as the gas goes in, drop, by drop by drop. I am sure it was not faster than that. Ever so often, they stopped pumping to closely examine the figures on the pump and scatch various parts of their bodies. Then, back to pumping, or dripping in the gas. Doofus never takes his hand off the pump, he can't make it fill on its own, he has to hold it. LF stares and scribbles and then squints at the pump figures. This goes on for nearly 10 minutes.
This is the good part. Doofus has to shake the last drops into the tank. My dad used to say, shake it more than once and you're just playing with it. I mean, Doofus really was going at it. I felt like a voyeur.
LF starts to head for the car and Doofus to the window to pay. I have never, in the whole of my life, seen such a unique gait. Doofus is lifting each foot just off the ground in a little marching movement and never moves any other body part. He is at that window for longer than it should have taken. There is a guy behind Doofus, who is wearing just his white socks, and he agrees with me, as he shifts from bare stocking foot to bare stocking foot.
On the way back to the car, Doofus counts his bills...once, twice...three times, now four. He gets in the car and teases me by putting his foot on the brake and the tail lights go on, then off. He hands the money to Little Fart who counts it twice and hands is back. Doofus counts it and hands it back to LF who counts it again and hands it back. The tail lights go on again, oh boy...then off. I see Doofus do that butt lift thing men do to put their wallets in the back pockets while seated. Ahhh we are moving?
We aren't.
The brake lights go on and off several more times. I see Doofus with the key in his hand into the ignition, then out again with a lot of gesturing. I have decided to pull the van up their tail pipe. Again with the key and this time, it actually goes in, but they don't turn it over, they talk for a minute before starting the car. Once the car has started, they creep forward looking for cross traffic and there isn't any, but they continue to look both ways and creep.
I finally get in, fill the tank and I am out and I am not the only person who has seen this all go on. The man at the next pump smiles sheepishly and shrugs his shoulders...SOME PEOPLE.
Remind me never to get in line behind two androgenous creatures in an old car and who can't count. They have completely undermined my efforts to gain a meaningful foothold with patience.
Volume 2, copyright 2003 by Dragonfly