I’m certainly not looking for ways to spend more money, but I have a confession to make.
I like paying more for gas.
Now, before you decide I’ve completely lost it, let me explain.
We live roughly between two small towns, Wallaceburg and Dresden. There are several places I could stop for fuel, and I’m sure if I carefully studied all the signs, points programs and discounts, I could probably save a few cents somewhere.
But most of the time, I drive to Dresden and buy my gas at Brown’s Garage.
The other day, though, I found myself in Wallaceburg needing to fill a small gas can. I stopped at one of the three gas stations in town, mainly because I thought it was still owned by the same longtime owners. They had always seemed to care a little. You know the kind of place. It may not be fancy, but someone greets you when you walk in and acts reasonably pleased that you chose their store.
Rather than paying at the pump, I went inside, as I usually like to do. I was greeted by a friendly young woman I didn’t recognize. I hadn’t been there in years, so I didn’t think much of it.
While I was paying, I asked her if they carried a particular treat I wanted to bring home for Anne. She said she didn’t think they had it.
That’s when a man standing behind the counter, counting money, pointed and grunted in the general direction of one of the shelves.
Apparently, they did have it.
I stood there for a second, completely bewildered.
Here I was, clearly a new face in a store that appeared to have changed hands. Many of the shelves were half empty, the place didn’t exactly seem to be overflowing with customers, and the person I assumed was the owner had just greeted a potential returning customer with a point and a grunt.
What in the world was going on?
I found Anne’s treat, paid for my gas and headed home. But as I drove, I kept replaying the whole thing in my head. Not because it was some great injustice. It wasn’t. Nobody yelled at me or threw me out of the store.
It was just so strange.
Of course, the more I thought about it, the more I imagined what I should have done.
I think the best response would have been a little one-man improv performance. I could have run around behind the counter and played both parts.
“Why yes, sir, we actually do carry that! It’s right over here. And by the way, it’s great to see a new customer come into our store. My name is Rod, and we really appreciate your business!”
Then I could have run back around to the customer side and replied, “Why thank you, Rod. What wonderful service. I’ll be sure to come back!”
I’m not sure how he would have received that information. Probably not well. So perhaps it’s best that the entire performance stayed inside my head.
A few days later, I stopped at Brown’s Garage to fill the truck. As Francis pumped the gas, we stood there chatting, as we always do. I told him my story from the other station.
Then I said, “You know, there just aren’t many good service businesses left anymore… other than Brown’s Esso, of course.”
Francis smiled and agreed.
The funny thing is, I know I pay a little more for my gas there. I’ve never done the exact math on how that adds up over a year, and I don’t really want to. But at Brown’s, Francis or his brother Den fills the truck. Somone always asks how things are going. We talk about the farm, the weather, town news or whatever else happens to come up.
Sometimes the conversation lasts two minutes. Sometimes it lasts ten.
Either way, I leave feeling like somebody was glad I stopped.
I don’t really know what the answer is. Maybe businesses are struggling to find staff. Maybe owners are tired. Maybe customers have become more impatient too. Perhaps we’ve all become so focused on speed, price and convenience that we’ve slowly trained the conversation out of everyday life.
All I know is I’m willing to pay a little more for it.
Because someday, places like Brown’s Garage may be gone. The pumps will probably still be there, and the gas will still come out. We’ll tap a card, stare at a screen and carry on without speaking to anyone.
And I think I’ll be sad when that day comes.
For now, though, I’ll keep driving to Dresden.
Farmer Rod