Rush Job (reposted from OneMoreFare.com)
Feb. 21st, 2010 04:02 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
skyring[caption id="" align="alignleft" width="180" caption="My life"]
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Twice a night I get to chat with one of the late night service station console operators. I go in at midnight to fill up and again at the end of a shift to top up the tank and clean the car. Usually it's just a few words as I run the card through the machine and grab the docket.
"How's your night going? Wet out there! Time to go home!" Just a few words.
Poor old operators. They have to keep the shop tidy and stocked up, hose down the forecourt, keep the windscreen wash buckets full and fresh, coil up the vacuum hose neatly, empty the litter bins and about a million other things.
Oh yeah. And serve the customers coming in for gas and late night snacks. They rarely get a moment to scratch themselves, even in the wee small hours.
Occasionally I'll pull in and one of the operators will be sitting down outside, well away from the bowsers, having a quiet fag. His moment of rest and he's got to get up and turn the pump on for me.
I get out and go over to him and chat until he's finished his smoke. A minute out of my night mostly spent waiting for things to happen is nothing compared to the sweet indulgence of an unbroken cigarette for a console jockey.
We were sitting there, just enjoying the still, when a man comes running in from the darkness, smack into the automatic door, which of course was locked while the operator was outside. He looked around, and my companion sighed, got up, handed me the cigarette.
"He wants a packet of smokes," I smiled. These late night cravings hit the nicotine addict hard.
I watched as the customer was served and made a quick exit, running away into the night.
"That was quick," I said, as the console guy retrieved his smoke. "He needed his tobacco, yeah?"
"Nah, condoms."
[/caption]Twice a night I get to chat with one of the late night service station console operators. I go in at midnight to fill up and again at the end of a shift to top up the tank and clean the car. Usually it's just a few words as I run the card through the machine and grab the docket.
"How's your night going? Wet out there! Time to go home!" Just a few words.
Poor old operators. They have to keep the shop tidy and stocked up, hose down the forecourt, keep the windscreen wash buckets full and fresh, coil up the vacuum hose neatly, empty the litter bins and about a million other things.
Oh yeah. And serve the customers coming in for gas and late night snacks. They rarely get a moment to scratch themselves, even in the wee small hours.
Occasionally I'll pull in and one of the operators will be sitting down outside, well away from the bowsers, having a quiet fag. His moment of rest and he's got to get up and turn the pump on for me.
I get out and go over to him and chat until he's finished his smoke. A minute out of my night mostly spent waiting for things to happen is nothing compared to the sweet indulgence of an unbroken cigarette for a console jockey.
We were sitting there, just enjoying the still, when a man comes running in from the darkness, smack into the automatic door, which of course was locked while the operator was outside. He looked around, and my companion sighed, got up, handed me the cigarette.
"He wants a packet of smokes," I smiled. These late night cravings hit the nicotine addict hard.
I watched as the customer was served and made a quick exit, running away into the night.
"That was quick," I said, as the console guy retrieved his smoke. "He needed his tobacco, yeah?"
"Nah, condoms."
