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Tales of a teenage pump jockey
Courtesy of:
Hawaii Motorbeat Monthly
By
Paul Maddox
My only gas station job was at
Kowalskis Gulf station on the truck-jammed Route 20 that led into
Worcester ~ in 1960 the crumbling industrial garden spot of central
Massachusetts.
At 16, I wasn't really sure why ol'
man Kowalski hired me... at first. Thot it was 'cause I'd take the
8pm to 2am late shift when nobody else would. Or, because I was a
car freak who knew where the dipsticks were on various engines, or
could find the gas caps that were increasingly being hidden on the
flashy new cars of the 50s/60s. When I walked right up to the left
tail light of a '56 Chevy and flipped it open it to reveal the
filler pipe, he said, "Yer hired, kid."
The first week went smooth enough. But
one night during my second week, the burley ol' man rolled into the
station in his 1950 Buick just after 8pm. Very odd. He parked at the
side; and, in the shadows, I could see a passenger getting out at
the same time. Thought maybe it was his big brother, who he'd
mentioned a couple times.
They went into the florescent drenched
office that looked out over the pump island where I was finishing up
that famous freekin full service. (Nice nostalgic memory for some
of you past a certain age ~ not for those of us who dispensed it in
the 20 degree New England night). I brought in the cash and finally
got to see who'd arrived with the boss.
"Paul, this is my daughter, Marylou."
The hooded parka turned and a pink, puffy face erupted with an
ear-to-ear smile, highlighted by impressive chrome and steel rigging
that was laced across it. The family Buick cowered in the night.
Aw, boss...say it ain't so.
Guess who was also 16, but hadnt
quite found a boyfriend. And no wonder; timid personality aside, she
outweighed me by 50 pounds and had a much nicer moustache than I
could ever come up with.
Kowalski brought her by a couple more
times in the next few weeks, and I was pleasant and noncommittal. By
the end of the month the ol' futt fired me.
The next month, cruising by the
station late one night, I saw the new kid, with a pump nozzle in
hand, wandering from side-to-side behind a new Thunderbird, trying
to find the gas cap. I smiled and thought, "it only gets worse,
pal." But then, he was 50 pounds heavier than me and already had a
swell 'stache. Shoots, their grandkids probably run the joint today.
See you again on July 1st ~ PM
Hawaii Motorbeat Monthly
More from Paul Maddox at:
www.hawaiimotorbeat.com
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