Battle Scars From Self-Serve Wars Spur Lament for Lost Expectations

I went into a gasoline station last week to fill up my car, and while I was pumping the gas, a youthful attendant appeared and asked if I wanted my oil checked.

I looked at him suspiciously.

“I’m in the self-serve area,” I said, looking to make sure.

He smiled and said, “I know,” and checked the oil--and I felt a little foolish. But I have been burned too many times. And the scars still show.

I acquired the most painful set several months ago when I was taking care of some business in Los Angeles. The business required wearing a jacket and tie--something I do as infrequently as possible. Before I got on the freeway to head home, I realized I needed gas, and I pulled into a filling station. It was empty of customers, and two attendants were throwing a Frisbee. They paid no attention to me.

I filled my gas tank, being careful not to dribble the gas on my pants. Then I remembered that I had been having trouble with my car using oil, and I was uneasy about getting on the freeway without checking it. So I opened the hood and pulled out the oil stick gingerly. The oil was low.

I looked around for oil, couldn’t find it, and asked one of the Frisbee players--who appeared to be the only people tending the shop. He didn’t pause in his game but waved an arm vaguely toward the far side of the station.

“Would you mind putting it in for me?” I asked.

He ignored me.

“Look,” I said, “I have my best clothes on, and I don’t want to get oil on them. Could you give me a hand?”

This time I got his attention. He pointed toward the self-serve sign on the island where I had just filled my car.

“See that sign?” he said. “Well, it means what it says. That’s the reason you get that gas so cheap. So put in your own oil.”

And he turned back to his Frisbee game.

I felt my face flush and the anger start to rise inside me. I found the oil supply, punctured a can and leaned over to pour it into my car. My sleeve touched the crankcase and came away with an oily smear. And as the oil dribbled in, my anger heated up. And reason departed. When I removed the oil can, I threw it at him.

It was a vainglorious, stupid, self-indulgent thing to do, and fortunately I missed. But not by much. The can hit the pavement and clattered across in front of him. He dropped the Frisbee, turned to look at me, then began to walk toward me menacingly. His partner joined him. I busied myself putting down the hood, but he chested me away from the car.

“What’s the idea, man?” he said to me. “Why’d you throw that can at me?”

“Because,” I said, “you work here and I made a reasonable request and I didn’t like the way you answered me.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, “but you got no call to throw that can at me. I don’t have to take that kind of crap from you or anybody else.”

I finally realized this was no time for talk, and I slammed down the hood and fumbled in my pocket. I didn’t want him processing my credit card, and fortunately I had enough cash to pay for the gas and oil. I held the money out to him, and he ignored it. I tried to move around him to get in the car, and he blocked my way. His friend stood just behind him.

I said, “I’ve got the right amount here,” reached behind him, and opened the car door. He gave ground enough for me to squeeze into the car. I handed him the money through the window, and this time he took it. The two young men were still glowering at me as I pulled out of the station.

I felt no satisfaction from my performance. I might very well have ended up with a knife in my ribs, and the fact that I was old clearly meant nothing to them. My heart was pumping furiously, and I was halfway home before it calmed down.

I had plenty of time to think on the way home. I realized that anger was counterproductive, but it took a long while to get it under enough control to think rationally. Then I realized two things: first, what I had done was incredibly stupid. Macho behavior offers some fleeting satisfactions when the odds are reasonably even. In my youth, about the worst that could have happened was getting beaten up. But today the rules have changed. Today, you could end up dead--which is a pretty high price to pay for speaking your mind.

The other revelation was more surprising to me. For the first time, I realized that there is a whole generation--and perhaps two or three--who don’t know the meaning of service. They have grown up in an era of gas station attendants holed up in glass fortresses in the center of what used to be “service” stations, of arrogant room clerks and rude ticket-sellers, of customers in a variety of industries from restaurants to department stores being treated as if the customers should be grateful for being allowed in. Many of these young people have known nothing else; the concept of service--especially as a competitive tool--is almost totally foreign to them.

I am grateful I had a chance to grow up expecting to be served when I made a purchase, but that also makes it harder to deal with most customer treatment today without feeling a great deal of useless anger and resentment.

The attitude that prompted the oil can incident seems almost the norm today, and I have seen it repeated, less excessively, many times, both before and since--especially in gas stations. So now I put on old clothes before I go out to fill up my car. I recognize that if I want to pay a premium of up to 30 cents a gallon, I can get my windshield washed. But I haven’t yet been able to accept the idea--either economically or philosophically--of paying a bonus for routine service.

I expect nothing--and that is usually what I get. That is why the behavior of the young attendant who offered to check my oil was so refreshing--and quite remarkable. I wish today’s entrepreneurs would understand what a potent competitive weapon service can be.