Brown Sludge

Independents Behaving Badly Part III

April 3rd, 2006

It is a cold and blustery day in the Midwest. The sky is a dull, slate grey – and there is a bitter wind cutting through the dark afternoon. Here and there you can feel the sting of what might be freezing rain. It’s the kind of day that sort of feels heavy on your shoulders.

As I’m returning to work from lunch, I glance at my gas gauge. CRAP! I forgot to get gas on the way in this morning, and now I’m in the “Danger Zone”. A little fast mental math tells me I’ve got a couple of miles. Maybe less. Not good.

I pull off the highway immediately and bee-line it for the nearest gas station. It looks independently owned, even if it is franchised from Brown Sludge clowns. Usually I try to only patronize local independent stations, but they are so scarce that I’m certain I’ll run out of gas long before I can track one down. I fight the gag reflex and pull into the first station I can find. It’s a BP. Used to be Amoco. Used to be one of the nicer full-service stations in that neighborhood, with mechanics you could trust and a decent reputation. Now the service bay is a gigantic robot car wash – and the inside is crammed with “convenience” items like bottled soda and pork rinds.

I pull up to the automated pump and shut off the truck. There is a giant sign on each pump – big block letters in red magic marker on construction paper – masking taped to each and every pump on each and every island. “NO CHECKS ACCEPTED PLEASE PAY FIRST!!!” Popping the gas-cap with one hand I slide my debit card into the automatic payment slot and select my grade. The cheap stuff at $2.42 a gallon. Woof.

The “Total Sale” readout on the pump starts to rise. It gets to about $6.55 and suddenly stops dead. The trigger doesn’t pop, and I’m on fumes so… the truck hasn’t topped off.

I’m examining the pump for clues as to why it shut down when I hear the loudspeakers over the pumps crackle to life. Someone with an unbelievably thick Middle Eastern accent informs me “BROKE.”

I stare up with a baffled look on my face. “Broke?”? I repeat. “BROKE. CARD BROKE. PLEASE TO COME INSIDE.”

I’m not happy. I stalk inside to confront the faceless voice, and after long minutes of trying to communicate something to someone who obviously doesn’t speak a word of English he disappears into the car-wash bay. He eventually returns with another Middle Eastern man. This man speaks better English.

I’m informed that the credit card machine is broke. I have to pay cash. I’ve got a 10 dollar bill in my pocket, but I owed that to my daughter for some school activity. Plus, the whole thing just stinks to high heaven. It’s a major gasoline franchise, not a local independent station. When I striped my card the machine thought for a moment, then displayed the word “APPROVED” and instructed me to start pumping. It wasn’t “BROKE”. They just wanted cash. I’m equally sure that my card has been charged for the $6.55 in gas I’ve already pumped.

I think for a moment that I’ll start a fight here. This is ridiculous and I’m sick of these people who refuse to learn how to do business in America.

But it is then that my eyes fall on the corner, and it takes a moment for my mind to understand the significance of the items sitting there.

Sitting on the check-out counter near the Trident Gum and the Philly Cigars are two boxes. One contains what the box proclaims are “Automobile Air Fresheners”. They are tiny roses about 4 inches long, and they are resting inside glass cylinders about 4 inches long and about the same diameter as a Number 2 pencil. Sitting next to that is an open box of copper Brillo pads that has obviously been purchased from a local grocery store and each pad has been tagged for individual resale. They are $1.00 a piece.

Now… at first I think to myself. “Hmmm. Why in the WORLD would a gas station have Brillo pads next to the cash register as if they are an impulse item???

Then it hits me.

The bastards are selling a crack cocaine starter kit. The glass tube is a thinly veiled crack pipe, and they use the Brillo as a filter. These imbeciles are selling a hook up kit!

I’m just furious. I tell the English speaking moron that I’m sure my card has already been billed, and I won’t pay another penny. He backs away quickly – and admits the card has already been charged, but that the “credit machine is broke now – you pay cash for more gas”.

I give him my back.

Back in my truck I call the local municipal police and inform them of the hook up kit. The officer tells me on the phone that I’m in luck, because they happen to have an ordinance against the sale of “drug paraphernalia” and that the “air fresheners” are exactly that – he promises to send an officer over to issue a citation.

When I get back to my desk at work, I fire off another Angry Letter to Amoco. There is no way you can make me believe that they don’t care about their name being attached to that kind of behavior. I’m not sure they care – but it makes me feel “pro-active”.

Not surprisingly, I’ve never heard back from them on the issue.

Ah well. I didn’t expect much more. Brown Sludge.

Entry Filed under: Big Oil, Brown Sludge Explained, Thoughts