I was quite the road-tripper post-college and very notorious for locking my keys in my car — my very old, no-frills, manual 1991 Corolla with crank windows. So notorious was I that, after going home for Christmas, my parents made me half a dozen extra keys to hide or give to more responsible people. Problem solved, or so you would think.

I was driving back to Utah from Arizona and stopped at a small gas station just south of the Utah/Arizona border. It was 3:00 am and I just needed one more tank of gas to get home, so I got out of the car and habitually locked and slammed my door. Just as it clicked shut, I realized that I had just locked my keys in the car.

I had no cell service, I was six hours from family and friends going either direction, and there were no other buildings for at least twenty miles. This Hitchcock-esque gas station was the only place with lights and people. So, I did the only sensible thing any twenty-year-old solo female traveler would do: I walked into the convenience store and said, “Help!”

Immediately, the only people there — the owner and his cousin — sprang into action. Apparently, the cousin had just relocated there from California looking to get a fresh start. Lucky for me, because he said he had lots of friends who locked their keys in their cars so he had a lot of experience breaking into cars. This sweet, wonderful, large, heavily tattooed man spent over an hour working to get into my car. And when he finally managed, neither he nor his cousin would take any money from me, not even for the hot chocolate they gave me while saving me from my own mistake.

I never saw either of them again on subsequent road trips, but I hope they both got every break the universe could offer them.

I wish that was the last time I’d gotten myself locked out of my car. It wasn’t. It wasn’t even the most dramatic. But it was the sweetest.

My mother got a new job in a town some twenty km away, so she started commuting with my late grandfather’s car which had been gathering dust in the garage. The time came for a refueling.

Mother: “Fill my tank, please.”

Attendant: “Sure. Want me to check the levels while I’m at it?”

Mother: “Yes, please.”

The attendant started with the oil level, but the dipstick came up squeaky clean.

Attendant: “Ma’am, when was the last time you put oil in here?”

Mother: “Oil? But cars run on petrol!”

I work at a gas station for a grocery store. I love my job, but sometimes… the people.

I watch as a lady stops short on the drive up to an out-of-order pump and steps out to move the cone over to the side — a real feat, as it’s heavily weighted against the wind. She gets back in her car so she can drive up properly, then gets back out, takes the red out-of-order bag off the pump handle, and proceeds to throw it into the trash.

She goes about trying to use the pump, but after a minute, she yells that the screen isn’t working!

Gasp! Shock! And HORROR! The out-of-order pump is… OUT OF ORDER!? How dare it be?!

I ignore her yelling as I would any other crazy person doing such crazy things. She walks over to my window.

Customer: “Sir, the pump isn’t working. The screen’s not on.”

I play innocent like I didn’t just watch her do what she did.

Me: “Really? Which pump?”

Customer: “Pump number eight, I believe it is.”

Me: “Oh! I’m sorry, ma’am, but pump eight is shut down at the moment. It needs repairs.”

Customer: “It needs repairs? I didn’t know.”

Me: “Yes, ma’am. You didn’t run over the cone there, did you?”

Customer: “No. I don’t think so.”

Me: “Good. It could really damage your vehicle if you were to run it over. But it’s there to let you know that the pump is out of order.”

Customer: “Is that what it means? Well, I guess I’ll go to another one.”

Me: “That would be best.”

She leaves. I want to cry.

A customer comes up to the register holding a gas can.

Me: “Hello.”

Customer: “How much gas will a two-gallon gas jug hold?”

Me: “Two gallons.”

Customer: “No, I mean, how many gallons will a two-gallon gas jug actually hold?”

I respond with a blank stare for a moment.

Me: “A two-gallon gas jug will hold two gallons of gas.”

Customer: “Well, I didn’t know! I’m just trying to help out a friend.”

Me: “So, you want to get two gallons of gas in a gas jug? Okay! What pump are you on?”

Customer: “No! Listen to me! I want to get as much gas as I can. And I have a two-gallon gas jug. I want to put as much gas in it as it’ll hold!”

I stare blankly at her again, and I guess it dawns on her what I said.

Customer: “Oh!” *Laughs* “I get it now. A two-gallon gas jug… two gallons… I’ve really been answering my own question with my question, haven’t I? And you just repeated what I was telling you.”

Me: “Yes, ma’am. What pump would you like for me to put it on for you?”

Customer: “The pump I’m parked on.”

Me: “Which pump are you on?”

Customer: “I dunno. It’s the one that I parked at.”

Me: *Frustrated* “Okay. Which vehicle is yours?”

Customer: “The white one.”

Me: “Which white one, ma’am? There are three white cars out there on pumps.”

Customer: “Well, the white one that is mine.”

Me: “Would you mind looking out the door and telling me which white vehicle is yours?”

Customer: *Looks out the door* “Oh!” *Laughs* “I see what you mean! I’m the one all the way on the far end!”

Me: “Okay. So, you want two gallons of gas on pump four? That’ll be $4.34.”

Customer: “$4.34?! For two gallons of gas? Why so high?!”

Me: “Gas is $2.17 a gallon. $2.17 times two is $4.34.”

This was my very first transaction after taking over the register this afternoon.

I am at the gas station washing my car window. The local station has a uniform — a green-collared shirt with the logo and black pants — neither of which am I wearing.

Lady: *To me* “I’m next!”

I think she is talking about using the brush next, so I smiled.

Me: “Okay!”

I put the brush back in its bucket and start to walk toward the station.

Lady: “Excuse me, I said I’m next!”

I turn around and glance at her, think, “Whatever,” and go inside. I pay for my gas and go to the ATM at the back of the store. As I am leaving:

Cashier: “We’ve just had a complaint about you.”

Me: “Yeah?”

Cashier: “That lady said you didn’t wash her windscreen and wants to speak to the manager; she’s coming back tomorrow.”

I just giggled and left. I’ll be going back again tomorrow to see if I can catch her.