Literally A Flammable Situation

(Back in 1996, working an afternoon at the popular local convenience store with gas pumps. Gas is about $1.25 a gallon. We have multiple cars at the pumps and a line of customers waiting inside at the register to pay. A little old lady comes up…)

Old Lady: “What do I owe on pump four?”

Me: *checking the pump total* “$13.96.”

Old Lady: “That doesn’t sound right. Please make sure you’re looking at the right pump. Number four.”

Me: *checking again* “Huh, that’s weird. It’s $14.67, now.”

(My manager is organizing the shelves nearby and gives me a weird look.)

Old Lady: “That can’t be right; my tank has a hole in it and can only hold about $8 dollars of gas.”

(My manager, a 4’11” woman, LEAPS over the service counter, palming the emergency pump shutoff, races to the aisle with cat food, and shoots out the front door with a bag of kitty litter, shouting “Call the fire department!” at me and “GET AWAY FROM THE PUMPS!” to everyone outside.)

Old Lady: “So, will $8 be enough?”

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