Fact: I am in Oregon. Let’s start with that.
Next fact: I’ve never been to Oregon before this weekend. Ever.
Fact #3: My rental car needed gasoline, since I’ve been driving a lot the past couple of days.
So here we go. Time to get gas. In Oregon. I pull up to the gas station, and there’s this grizzly-looking bearded man in a tattered orange vest. I get out of the car, and walk over to the pump.
“Hello,” says the man.
“Hi,” I said.
“Would you like to pay with cash or plastic?”
“What?” I said.
“I’m here to pump your gas,” he said.
I paused for a minute, and then said: “That’s okay, I can do it myself.”
“Well, it’s a law here in Oregon. We pump your gas for you. So if you’ll give me your card, I’ll pump your gas.”
“Uh, thanks… but I’m not really comfortable with that.”
“Suit yourself, there’s a station across the street.”
So I get in my car and drive across the street, thinking some random crazy person is trying to get me to give him money. I get out at the next gas station and try to pump my gas, and the guy comes over to stop me.
“So… is this the part where you come and try to pump my gas for me?” I asked.
“Yeah,” says the guy.
“Oh. See, because that’s what the guy over there just said, but I figured he was lying to me. I mean, I know they did that in the 50s and stuff, but I’ve never, in my life, had someone else pump my gas.”
“Where are you from?” He asks me.
“Oh. Well, yeah. We have this no-spill law, and it creates jobs, and–”
“Okaaaay… I just think it’s super weird, that’s all,” I said. Then I hand him my card, and he gets started pumping the gas. After the gas is done pumping, the pump sort of recoils a bit, and it falls on the ground and spills a bunch of gas.
“So… this is the part where the gas doesn’t spill, right?” I said. He just looked at me. Then he picked up the pump and put it back, handed my receipt, and I got in the car and drove away.
So here it is. My letter to the state of Oregon:
I’m a big girl. I can pump gas all by myself now. And you know what? I don’t spill it. Ever.