Betsy and I were headed away from Brownspur one day, me to get some plumbing stuff, her to get some food stuff. As I backed out of the garage, she waved me down: “I’m low on gas,” she called.
Now, while I know full well that a country girl can fill up her tank herself, that image conflicts with Big Robert’s Proclamation on Handling Your Women: “Put them on pedestals where they belong, and keep them there through Hell or High Water!” A man belongs to take out the garbage, gut out his buck deer, and gas up the car, is the way I was raised up.
“Follow me to Ed’s Station and I’ll fill you up,” I invited my bride.
I beat her to town by a mile or so, parked in front of Ed’s, and stepped inside for a root beer, which I left on the window ledge when I saw Betsy pull up to one of the pumps. I walked briskly to the car and announced, “Mornin’, Ma’am. How about a fill-up, in exchange for a kiss today?” She stuck her head out the window and obliged enthusiastically. I then opened the gas cap, inserted the hose, and wiped the lipstick off.
She leaned out and pointed to the squeegee bucket. “Could you clean my windshield too, please?”
I considered briefly, “Yessum, for another kiss, I can do that.” She smiled and puckered up. I put the hose on self-fill and smooched her good, grabbed the squeegee, and made short work of the driver’s side windshield. As I finished, I heard the hose click off, so stuck the windshield washer back in the bucket and replaced the hose on the pump, then screwed the gas cap back on. By that time, I had forgotten the other side of the windshield.
As I walked by the Buick reaching for my billfold to go pay Ed, she called, “Hey, what about cleaning the passenger side, too?”
I couldn’t resist it. “Sure, but that’ll be another kiss, Ma’am.”
She beckoned me to the window, grabbed my collar to pull me closer, and really laid one on me that time! I staggered as I backed away, felt for the squeegee handle, then made short work of the rest of the windshield. “Thank you, Sir!” she waved, as she cranked up and pulled away. I waved, went inside and paid Ed, waiting behind a guy who was already at the counter. As he moved away and I offered bills to my friend, an older lady stepped up behind me, then paid for her own gas as I retrieved my root beer. She was right behind me as I went out the door, and grabbed my sleeve.
“Mister, you paid for that lady in the Buick’s gas, too? After filling her up and washing the windshield?
I put on my happy innocent look: “Yes, Ma’am! And it was sure worth it!”
She cocked her head: “Well, this really is a full-service station, isn’t it?” She squinted up at me, “I know that I’m a lot older than that pretty lady is, but could I get the same kind of service as she did, the next time I’m here?”
I hedged, “Ma’am, I don’t work here full-time. You’ll have to go back in and ask the owner about that.”
She turned around to go back in and see Ed. “I’ll do that. He’d sure get more customers from women my age, with that kind of service!”
I jumped in my pickup and left before she could come back.