2002-04-20 � The Green Sedan
~~~~~~
A few days ago, Ellen and I were not studying by taking a drive. It was our method, you see, of not studying. We went to Wendys and to Ellen's house. I think she wanted to seduce me sexually, but I laid down the law early. "I only like you like you as a friend," I said. "I don't like you that way." I think she understood.
We stopped for gas on our way back to school. Buying gas in New Jersey is, without question, the best thing about living here. For many buying gas is the only good thing about the whole state.
Sometimes, I fall into this category. I have been known to yell something along the lines of "I HATE THIS MOTHER FUCKING STATE!" at the top of my lungs from time to time. But then I buy gas and all is forgiven. You see, all gas stations are full service in New Jersey as a matter of law. This, my friends, is a beautiful thing.
There is a psychology to the full service station. When pulling into a station in which an employee, we'll call him a "fuel tech" for the purposes of this entry, will be pumping fuel for you, one tends to choose the pump nearest the fuel tech, even if it is inconveniently located and requires complex parellel parking maneuvers. This secures one's place in line by preventing interlopers from coming in behind you, choosing a closer pump, and recieving service prior to you. At busy times, this procedure is absolutely crucial.
Ellen faithfully observed all the unspoken rules about such matters when we arrived at the filling station. There were four islands, and all the cars were clumped around two of them because that is where the fuel techs were. We took our spot and waited our turn.
Soon, we heard a green sedan squeal into the filling station. He chose a pump at the farthest island from the rest of us, thereby insuring he would be the lowest priority on the fuel tech's complicated schedule.
I watched him grab the steering wheel and shake it violently. He rested his head on the wheel and had a conversation with himself. He ran his fingers through his hair in obvious frustration. I wondered why he'd chosen that pump, the distant pump.
Pretty soon, he got out of his car and stood behind it. Ellen and I could see his head clearly over the roof of his car. "Is this one even working? Can I get some fucking service, or what?" He sniffed loudly and huffed indignantly.
"Ellen, do you see him?" I asked. "Can you see this? He's amazing. I love him. He's so New Jersey. He's such a specimen, isn't he?"
Ellen rolled her eyes at me, but she thought I didn't know. "Yes, sweetie. He's amazing alright."
The green sedan man got back into his car, slammed the door and took off squealing his tires. Ellen and I shared a knowing glance and a giggle. We had finished our business and pulled away from the pump.
Just then, the green sedan reappeared and swerved dangerously into our recently vacated spot at the fueling island. The driver stuck his head out of the window and began cussing the fuel tech. "Can we stay and watch?" I asked.
Ellen said we couldn't in no uncertain terms and continued toward the street. Just then, the driver of the green sedan emerged from his car to better communicate his disdain for the fuel tech. For the first time we could see what he was wearing. It was a postal uniform. 
I instantly understood why initially he resisted the unspoken rules of New Jersey refueling. He marched to a different drummer, a postal worker's own personal, private drummer. Not our drummer, his drummer.
Ellen and I exchanged silent glances as the green sedan postal man's tone grew increasingly agitated. "Oh no," Ellen whispered. "We are so out of here. I am not ending up on the news. I'm not."
"Go, go, go!" I yelled. "Go, go go!"
We jumped recklessly into the stream of traffic and never looked back.
Posted at 12:25 p.m.
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