Light hands

I'm a thief. Plain and simple, pure klepto. It's in my blood now. I've tasted it and I crave it more and more every day.

Last week I was out running errands and my car was low on gas. I pulled into a station, parked at the pump, got out of my car and waited for the attendant. I'm not a big fan of waiting for someone else to pump my gas. I've lived in and visited many states where you are allowed to pump your own gas and it seems to be much more efficient. You hardly ever see a long line at a self-service station. I think they have a no-long-lines policy at theses establishments, either that or or they're just much more efficient. Anyway, so I'm waiting for the attendant to catch eyes with me so he knows that I need gas in my car more than anyone else that is here. There's two other people in this showdown with me. A young, professionally dressed woman with a green Chrysler and middle-aged man wearing a rather impressive sweat suit standing next to his mini-van. The man's eyes keep darting between his watch and the attendant as if the gym is going to close soon and the right people won't see him there solidifying his "in-shape" reputation. The woman is running her fingers through her hair, hoping somehow that her highlights will reflect the sunlight in the attendant's eyes or something. We're all looking at each other and then back to the attendant trying to remember which one of us actually got here first while still asserting that it was absolutely us, respectively. Me, actually. I was here first, really.

I have a dominant technique in regards to capturing the station attendant's attention. I've got this little reverse head nod, sort of inquisitive eyebrow raise thing going on. It's what works, you know. Getting that gas, that's what I'm about.

So at this particular station ( I'm not going to give the name and the reason for this will be clear in few moments ) won't let you pay with a debit card at the pump, so you have to go inside and wait for your tank to fill. Maybe they do this on purpose so you have to go in and be tempted by all of the bright colors and familiar logos on your favorite snacks and sodas and condoms or tiny tubes of toothpaste that are more than twice what you would pay at supermarket or drugstore. The longer I wait the more my mouth waters and I start to think, how long ago did I eat lunch? Mmmm Doritos. Snickers? Snapple? Hagen Daas? Nope. Much more unreasonable. I'm going way out of bounds with this decision - pepperoni stick. I know, I know, it's not even really meat. I think it's dirt and napkins soaked in corn syrup, but no mind, I'm putting it in my mouth.

What happens next is an eternity of waiting for the guy at the register to tell me that my car
is ready. And in this eternity, this is when it takes place. My moment. My chance to satiate my most carnal desire - eating shitty food and then forgetting that I did and leaving without paying for it. Yup. That's me, standing in the mini mart chinking away at this wrinkled, soggy tree branch of garlic and paprika telling myself, you'll just pay for it when he runs your card for the gas. But that doesn't happen at all. I just thumb the last little nub in my mouth and blackout.

Swipe you card.
Ok.
Enter your pin.
Yes, machine.
Do you agree to the $.45 service charge?
Yes, but f@%& you.
Do you want cash back? (Maybe to pay for that salty piece of pork ass that you just sucked down like soda slurp...)
No, thanks.

And now for my graceful exit. My get-away chariot awaits me. Here you go Mr. attendant, one stamped little piece of paper that says I'm an upstanding citizen, honest and true. Then, I get in my car, buckle my safety belt and drive off. As I'm pulling out onto the street I look into my side mirror and notice, not the attendant or the register clerk chasing me, but a sweat-suited, middle-aged man and a young, professionally dressed woman still impatiently waiting for their tanks to be filled.