Oh, you’re super nice to the girl who prepares your coffee at New Seasons while you buy flowers for the office. You let folks into heavy traffic with a polite wave. You volunteer to clean up trash in your neighborhood and you’re always keeping a lookout for the kids playing basketball on your street to make sure they’re okay. You’re a nice person! Except when you talk to that lowly fuel attendant, that is. You remember them, don’t you? That poor dipshit wearing the reflective vest waiting for you to stop texting and order something lest they, god forbid, move on to the next vehicle in the queue because then it’s all “JESUS CHRIST, GIVE ME A GODDAMN SECOND. I WAS NEXT.” Or, should your 4:50pm daily jaunt to the gas station for five dollars of Plus be at all inconvenienced by three whole minutes of wait time by the tempest of traffic surrounding you. Then they get an earful of “I counted five cars before you walked up to mine, gas fucker. I’m paying with cash and I’m NOT GOING INSIDE. DEAL WITH IT.” It’s not enough that you wave your card out the window like a dog treat, you have to smirk like a Disney villain, too. “Fuck this bullshit, I’ll just do it in Washington next time. Asshole,” your eyes seem to say, punctuated by your screaming of exactly those words. I don’t know what it is that transforms you this way but I hope that the venting and rage you inflict upon us is at least cathartic for you. I love you. Would you like your receipt?
The Way You Talk to Gas Pumpers is Revealing.
The views expressed in these submissions are from anonymous, unverified sources and do not necessarily represent those of the Portland Mercury.