Fill 'er Up

It's no secret I have a real soft spot in my heart for gas-station attendants. I've waxed poetic about the magnificence of Chevron (Adam W.) for years now. I still love telling the story of our first kiss behind the Otis Spunkmeyer display in the Texaco station. I still love remembering how my whole office sat, riveted, as I recounted my boldness in kissing him, and my chutzpa for walking away and not looking back until I'd reached the van. There was something really satisfying about seeing him hunched over the counter, looking dazed and delighted. My Chevron romance was life-changing, and I've never looked at a gas station the same since.
And now, I'm hoping to pass the tradition on to the next generation of lovely girls looking for love. Now, when girls tell me they don't know where to meet boys, I say "pay for your gas inside instead of at the pump." Had Macey's not offered 5 cents off per gallon at Chevron with a purchase of $50 or more, I may had never met Adam, nor sipped free hot chocolate whilst discussing Bob Marley and security cameras. Or had the chance to kiss in the freezer at the Chevron. Or received so many free car washes.
Last night, Pammy went with me to pick up my latest antique-- a great looking bed (pictures to come eventually-- gotta move the furniture around a lot first). I brought the family van for old time's sake, and for trunk space sake. Those folding back and middle seats are great for so many things (wink, wink). I'd not REALLY driven the van since the water-pump incident of July, so imagine my surprise when the oil light came on, and the dashboard flickered and the incessant beeping started. Pam and I had our priorities straight-- we went and picked up the bed. BUT I knew there were several filling stations near the antique store, so I rolled on into a Diamond Shamrock, bought a quart of oil, and proceeded to go all grease-monkey.
Except I didn't really.
A) We were going to have dinner at Lou's restaurant, and didn't think the folks at Vivace would really appreciated it if I were covered in oil.
B) I was a little afraid to touch the engine, because it was hot from driving the 45 miles (PS, please don't tell my dad).
C) I couldn't get the oil cap off. It was totally jacked!
So then I tried to get Pam to come play Ms. Fix-It like Rosie the Riveter, Queen of Pam's Living Room, but she couldn't get the cap off either. There was a little man filling his truck who looked over at us, but he didn't offer to help, and he looked a bit like a creeper.
Instead, we called over to the little boy who worked there who was replenishing the supply of Styrofoam cups and talking on his cell phone. And long story short, Cameron saved the day. He not only got the cap off (with a leatherman or something), but he also poured the oil in. Obviously, I could have done this myself, but sometimes I, as a very independent woman, get a kick out of playing helpless. He was a little sweetie, originally from Tennessee, and planning to go to Colorado Springs soon to study architecture. I told him I didn't really have anything to give him (true, except maybe a piece of gum) but offered to let him kiss Pam. It made me sound like a Madame (he helped me find the right word), and on the whole it was a jolly good evening.
The key to a quality gas-station relationship, however, is frequent interaction. I think I'll make some cookies that Pam and I can deliver, and then accidentally drive off and leave her there while I go antiquing. That should give them adequate time behind Otis Spunkmeyer.