newjerseynewsroom.com

What would Pat Sajak do?

BY FRANK SCANDALE

COMMENTARY

In the category of “No Kidding,” reading the poll results that New Jersey residents prefer not to pump their own gas is like being told Atlantic City casinos win more than you.

Still, it was comforting to learn that New Jersey refuses to bend to the whims of those other 48 states that allow self-service pumping. Bunch of sheep those states.

I was a little curious why Republican men have less of an aversion to pumping gas than Democratic men. Though I’m thinking guys like the late Charleton Heston would sooner let anti-gun folks hold their weapons than allow a stranger to drip gas on their vehicles.

Women voting against pumping their gas? Come on. If my wife is any barometer about why women do not like to deal with the nozzle, that’s another no-brainer. More on her later.

For some reason only Oregon stands with us. I was curious what these two states would have in common besides their aversion to standing near their vehicles and snorting gas fumes to give us a little pick-me-up with our morning coffee.

They both have a decent coastline. They both boast a healthy history of trapping small fury critters for their pelts. Oregon is called the Beaver State and New Jersey’s meadowlands has more muskrats than toll booths. You can fish off both coasts. Oregon has a piece of the Oregon Trail and New Jersey has most of the diner trail.

After that, they seem to go their own ways. Except there was one very unhappy fellow who moved there and he made a list of things that were unpleasant about his new home in Portland, OR, that is worth reading if you think you are having a bad day with New Jersey’s challenges.

I never understood the concept or attraction of pumping your own gas, but like so many of us, we have had a love affair with the stations and their pit crews.

I grew up in Brooklyn, where my father would pull up with his 1952 Hunter Green Pontiac and authoritatively request $2 of the regular from the guy wearing the Tony the Tiger outfit. In exchange for his two bucks, he received about a tanker truck of fuel, a set of drinking glasses, a stuffed tiger and six scratch off Esso cards that could win you money, furs, trips to the Catskills and a car wash. When things were flush, dad threw the guy an extra quarter and he’d basically wash the car with a power washer and a bring in a helicopter to dry it.

Apparently this was some steal in town because the gas station hosted so many cars per minute it looked like the loading docks at Port Newark. We were never ever allowed to exit the car during these stops for fear of certain maiming and likely death at the hands of some driver seeking to round out his drinking class set.

Staying inside the vehicle at a gas station was such an unwritten law in Brooklyn that uncles would talk in hushed tones at Sunday dinner about the time they needed to use the bathroom during one of these stops and what they did to satisfy their needs. When a child passed by during these talks, silence came over the men.