“Check your oil?” the attendant asks. His blonde hair shines in the morning sunlight.
“Nah, thanks. I’ll get it next time,” I say. The filling station up the way from my house, Pruitt’s, still has full service. I, along with most of us in the neighborhood, pull up to the self, but that just means we pump our own gas. We still get the same neighborly treatment as anybody else.
He goes to clean my windows, shaking the squeegee out onto the ground.
I like a place that feels like home, and this place does. My neighborhood has a lot of this Norman Rockwell neighborliness.
When I stop in at the nieghborhood pharmacy, the pharmicist nods his jet-black-dyed head, and says, “Mr. Sisler.” He turns to the shelf and looks for me under “S.” He sometimes asks how the twins are doing.
When I drop by the local hardware store, Pete Hammer’s (seriously), to rummage through the bins for just the right screw, I smile at the shelves stacked floor-to-ceiling with hardware brick-a-brack, the garden tools and children’s toys hanging from the ceiling.
These places, these people, transport me to a time when I collected beer cans and comic books, when my mother would send me on my own to pick up a gallon of milk from the neighborhood grocery.
I’d carry a dollar or two from home, proud, as if entrusted with a grand quest. I’d skip, jump over cracks in the sidewalk, and pick honey bees off the clover, shaking them in my fist to see if I’d be stung, or I’d ride my bike, leaning it against the wall outside in the parking lot, no lock.
“How’s your sister?” the teenage girl at the checkout would ask, and she’d count out the change for me so I was sure I brought the right amount back.
My dad knew something back then: If he wanted to have a conversation with me, it was best to get me on a job. And I’m now finding with my own boys, that I can get most out of them if we are raking leaves, walking the dog, taking out the trash, or running an errand for Mom.
He often took me out to fill up the car. “Fillerthreglar,” he’d say when the attendant leaned down to the driver’s side window (fill it with regular), oil company patch on the left pocket of his blue work shirt revealing his name just over the edge of the door. “Jim,” my dad would add.
Then, “reglar” meant with lead, not cheapest grade possible. Jim would make a pulling motion with his hand and nod at my dad, who’d pop the hood. Jim would check the oil and wash the windows without asking. It was just part of the service. Maybe it’s still like this in states like Oregon that forbid self-service.
The pump clicks off, and I hand the attendant my credit card.
“You a Preds fan?” he asks, noticing my Nashville Predators bumper sticker.
“Yes,” I tell him as affirmatively as possible, and fully aware that revealing your sports allegiance is risky business.
“I love em,” he says. “I go down there all the time.”
“I wanted to get Avs tickets for this weekend,” I tell him, “but they were way too expensive. I guess you have to act fast if you want the 15 dollar family-section seats.”
“Well, that’s a big one,” he says, handing me my receipt and credit card, “Can’t be too surprised about Colorado. Should be a good one though.”
“Uh huh,” I say. “Guess I’ll have to wait for a Blue Jackets game,” I tell him, and we both laugh.
I pull my door shut, and he tells me, “You have a great day, now, Sir.”
So far, I have no complaints.