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The Spokesman-Review Newspaper
Spokane, Washington  Est. May 19, 1883


A letter of sorry to my favorite convenience store/gas station owner

Dear Guy, 

Thankfully, your convenience store sells the cheapest fuel near my home. It’s my fault you were hosed with it, and I am sorry. You see, when I stumbled into your store at 6:43 in the AM and splurged for $20 worth of gas instead of my usual $10 desperation squirt, you threw in a cup of “Jitterbug” coffee for free. We both know that I usually purchase the less expensive, less potent “Morning Blend” with a handful of linty coins. To be gifted your java equivalent to crack-cocaine meant a lot to me, which brings me to this:

There is a reason I tore the gas hose from your #2 pump with my Dodge Dynasty. 

Simply put, I’m fairly incompetent for the first three hours of my day. More to the point, I am a bumbling, blurry-eyed enigma whose boobery can only be considered humorous by those fortunate enough to avoid being afflicted by it. Unfortunately you added crack-coffee to this deplorable state and entered the dragon. Just saying, we both have some gas on our hands here.

Swilling another gulp of sweet Jitterbug, I failed to notice the pump was still lodged in my gas tank, focusing instead on locating my favorite rockabilly radio station as I pulled away. 

To my credit, you should know I attempted to reattach the hose myself before you ever had the chance to discover where the terrible noise came from. Using my man instinct, I wrestled the hose back to the scene of the accident, hoisted the heavy plastic fastener to the female end several feet above my head and shoved them back together like a randy stallion. My attention then moved to my strong, capable hands – they were lathered with fuel and grime - it stunk like car love, but your complimentary hand sanitizer blended the stench into a mystifying aroma of bathroom cleaning product and mechanic’s knuckles. 

During the laborious mental formation of this analogy, the fastener swung down from the heavens and bludgeoned the aviators from my face, spackling me with the petroleum-based saliva of instant karma. Then, like a gazelle, you sprung from behind the greasy vanity window of the weenie-roaster to help me. 

“Oh, did it fall down again?” you asked. 

“…Yes,” I replied, “…Yes.” 

Without the slightest hesitation, you moved swiftly to the fallen hose and reinserted it, just as I did. 

“There, that did it,” you said proudly, wiping your hands and smiling at me. 

A piece of my heart broke as the fastener came loose like a stopper from a giant jug, douching your noble head with fuel. Only slightly perturbed, you ran valiantly back inside to get your gloves and complete the job. 

I waited. And waited. And finally decided to move my car into a proper parking space. Alas, this is where the true misunderstanding took place: Just as I was wheeling the Dynasty around, Jitterbug in sexy hand, you reemerged from the mini-mart with your gloves and that creepy guy who hangs out at the tables next to the coffee pots and always smiles at me in an unsettling way. 

From your perspective (and his) it must have appeared that I was attempting to escape the scene of the accident in my trashy car without offering to help remedy the situation. I leaned out the window to explain I was only parking the Dynasty, but before the words could escape my mouth a look of hurt and abandonment swept across your face.

“Oh no, we can handle it,” you said. 

“Are you sure, I was just-”

“No, no, you go on, we can fix it.” 

Creepy guy glared at me like an angry toy dog… I did have to be at work soon…

I’m sorry mini-mart guy. This wasn’t the first time I’ve torn a gas hose from a pump with my car, but it’s the first time I’ve ever felt bad for leaving. 




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