Reading Is For The Poor

(It’s the day before Hurricane Irma — downgraded to a Tropical Storm — is set to hit the town and I am working the night shift at a gas station by myself. The people fleeing Florida have wiped us of most of our stock of water bottles, ice, and bread three days ago so locals are straggling to get supplies at the last minute. This weekend, we have run out of all types of gas three or four times and we only have regular gas when this happens. I have already hastily put signs up that we only have regular gas in stock at the moment on every pump and on both of the doors leading into the store anticipating nervous, easily-angered customer reactions as this is the richer side of town. A few hours later a lady storms in.)

Woman: “Why are the pumps not working?”

Me: *having answered this question far too many times already despite the signs* “I’m sorry, ma’am, what kind of gas were you trying to pump?”

Woman: “Premium.”

(We’re in the heart of lake country, and many very rich people live in the neighborhood. I’m no stranger to being looked down upon as a customer service worker and have grown a thick skin over it.)

Me: “We are out of premium, ma’am. We only have regular gas.”

Woman: *irritably* “Well, how was I supposed to know that?”

Me: *polite, but straight-faced* “There was a sign on the pump and on the door you just walked through.”

(She gets quiet for a moment and looks at the door and at the sign before looking back at me and snapping.)

Woman: “It’s not my job to read!”

(She stormed back out to her Lexus and drove off quickly. I just want to know how she got this far in life if “it isn’t her job to read.”)