Gillian P. Herbert: Pumping Petrol

Day after day I’d sit in that dirty, smelly booth waiting for the next car to drive in and pull up at the pumps for petrol. Located on the south circular road, which ran around the outskirts of London, this petrol station mainly served long-distance truckers. It backed onto old Victorian housing; where the houses were skinny and cramped, grim and grimy: most of them divided into small one or two room flats. I didn’t want to live here but it was all I could afford. My small one room bedsit was at basement level with no windows. Big enough for a bed, a wardrobe, a chair and my 10” TV perched on a chest of drawers, with kitchen and bathroom privileges upstairs. It was so depressingly uninviting; I slept late most days before cycling the half mile to work. I was glad to distance myself from my poverty: even cold, wet, work shifts at the pumps were better than lonely hours shut in my dungeon!

On rainy days drivers would lower their windows half an inch and dangle out the key to the petrol tank lock. They were scared they might get their fingers wet. No matter that I was standing out there with rain dripping off my hat and down my back. I’d be wearing heavy socks buried in huge work boots and still my feet would be wet and numb from the cold.

I’d pump their gas, return their keys and take their money. When I tromped back with their change, maybe I’d get a tip. But more often they’d close their window real quick and roar off up the road without even a ‘thank you’. I’d stamp back to the booth which smelt of oil and sweat and stale coffee and hover over the weak three-bar electric fire. Peeling off my gloves, I’d try to warm my fingers as I gazed out through the streaky, misty windows for the next car.

Sometimes I’d ask how I ended up pumping petrol. This was the 1960s and my parents would have a fit if they knew what I was doing. What was an educated, middle-class kid like me doing out here? And I knew the answer only too well. Nobody cared out here if I wore jeans and boots, cut my hair short and had a deep voice. Nobody cared if I was male or female, gay or straight. Here they only cared I pump petrol, check oil dipsticks, top up oil, and make change. Here, I was judged only for what I did, not for who I was.

That day, as I glanced back out into the sheeting rain, I saw the low light beams of a Jaguar slowly pull into the forecourt. I knew this car and its driver. The chrome glinted through the rain and the water stood up in puddles on the highly waxed bodywork. The wipers swept back and forth at high speed throwing water off in streams. The driver? Well, I didn’t really know her, but she managed to need her car refuelling every time I was on shift. I did know she was very attractive with bright blue eyes, a small upturned nose and a mouth that smiled easily. I’d taken a lot of teasing from my fellow workers, they joked she timed it so I’d be around. I ignored them or told them they were imagining it. But I knew this driver recognized me and found something attractive, attractive enough to keep her coming back.

I did a quick check in the broken mirror, slicked back my hair and pulled my hat back on. I straightened up, stepped out and sauntered over to the driver’s door. Tonight she wore a crisp, white shirt with a bright scarf draped casually across her shoulder. As the window slid down she flashed a smile.

“Good evening, Gill. How’s it going tonight?”

“Really wet, but I’m fine. What do you need?”

Her head tossed a little as she laughed, “Well, let’s see. I suppose we should start with filling her up and checking the oil.” She dangled the keys from one finger really close to her head. As I reached into the car to retrieve them she made sure our fingers brushed. I disappeared under the bonnet of the Jag and checked the oil while the petrol tank filled. “Oil’s just fine. Anything else?”

“Well, maybe I should move over to the air line and have you check my tires?”

Now I knew she was yanking my chain. Who’d ask for their tires to be checked in the pissing rain?

“Yes, of course.” I grinned as I sloshed through the puddles on the way to the wall mounted airline. Hey, if I had to stand out there in the wet and cold earning peanuts, at least I got to do it for a strikingly beautiful woman in a Jag! With great care she maneuvered her car from the pumps over to the airline. Once alongside me she reached down and turned the engine off. I’d already dropped down to remove the valve cap on the rear wheel, so she didn’t get to see my grin – so now her engine was turned off – guess she planned on a long tire check?!

I worked my way around the vehicle and ended up with driver’s side front wheel. I stood up.

“They all look pretty good. Except for the rear right. It was down some. You might want to keep an eye on it.”

She looked up as she thanked me and handed me her credit card.

“I think you need this.” She smiled.

I took it back to my booth and ran the charge. I heard her start the engine. She’d be on her way any minute now and my life would become drab and gray again.

Back at her car, she signed the charge slip, folded it in a £10 note and, as she handed both back through the window, asked,

“I’m wondering if you’d like to join me for a drink after work?”

I gulped, and stuttered,

“Well, er, I don’t get off until late, not until ten.”

“I know. Why don’t you come on over to the bar with the green door and let me buy you a drink?”

I knew where the green door was – it was the only place for gay women in the entire city! What an invitation! My dreary bedsit paled by comparison to the vivid colors and noise of the bar. But I didn’t want to seem too keen so I stalled. I looked down at my wet clothes.

“I’ll need to stop off for a dry pair of jeans.”

“That’s fine. I’ll see you about 10.30. Make sure you come. It’s time we got to know each other better.”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

I turned away as she drove off. Yes! My grin was disgusting! I‘d always known there was an up side to pumping petrol.

Born in Canada, raised in England and California resident for last thirty years. She writes predominantly creative non-fiction, but occasionally wanders into the realm of fiction.. When not writing, she spends time in her glass studio creating fused glass bowls and platters.