This morning — in the still dark of a subzero January day — I got up and started the car. And then, after it was sufficiently warmed, and I'd fixed my hair and made a piece of peanut butter toast and found my other mitten, I loaded up that car for the 300-mile drive to Rochester.
Along the way, I would be picking up my mom at the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport. Her flight was due to arrive just before 11:30 a.m., which meant I had to be on the road before 7:30. And, hot damn, if I wasn't right on schedule.
Except.
As I roll down our driveway carpeted in fresh, powdered snow, I realize that the car I'm driving — our Honda Pilot — has less than a quarter tank of gas. And in that beast, a quarter tank of gas would barely get me to the next town.
So, about 15 minutes into my drive, I pull into Pete's Place South just outside Bemidji city limits to gas up.
Pull up to the pump. Snuggle my stocking cap over my ears. Stuff my hands into my mittens. And step out wondering why Minnesota, of all places, hasn't brought back full-service gas stations. Because I, for one, would pay top dollar for that little luxury on days like this.
Instead, bracing myself against the cold, head down to avoid the wind, I run my card through the pay-at-the-pump system. Nada. Try again. Still nothing. Hopping back and forth on either foot, I try a third time and get this message: "Please see attendant."
"Arrrrgh!" I think is my exact sentiment.
I run in to Pete's, stand in line behind a guy in a Carhartt jacket with an armful of breakfast sandwiches, and finally make it to the attendant.
"The pump won't take my card," I explain. "It says to see you?"
"All of our credit card machines are down," the woman behind the counter says. "You have to pay cash."
I have maybe 76 cents in my purse. Even if I empty the "take a penny / leave a penny" cup into my palm, we're still probably looking at $1.11, tops.
The counter attendant must be able to read this in my eyes. Or maybe it's the way I stare at her, mouth agape, as I try to come up with a solution that doesn't send me back into Bemidji, and late for my 11:30 MSP pick-up.
"There's an ATM in the back," the woman says to me. "If you want to use it."
I want to use it.
I make my way down the far aisle to the ATM and have just entered my PIN when the counter attendant — who is now helping the next man in line — calls back out to me.
"He says he has credit here if you just want to use that," she says.
"Yeah, I have a credit line here," the guy adds.
I turn to the duo, confused about how that would work. Was he offering to pay for my gas ... or just spot me a loan and I'd pay him back later?
"Wow, that's so kind," I answer. "Thank you so much! But I've already entered my card, so I can just pay cash."
There is the tiniest of beats before the woman at the counter yells, "I'm not talking to you."
She. wasn't. talking. to. me.
She was yelling to her co-worker in the office right next to the ATM, who had been trying to figure out how this man was going to pay for a big rig full of gas without using a card.
Thus commenced the longest ATM transaction of my life. I must've checked that receipt 5, 6 times waiting for that man to leave so I could show my face at the counter.
I guess it all worked out for him. He's going to settle up when he comes back through.
But I can now never, ever go there again.
Along the way, I would be picking up my mom at the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport. Her flight was due to arrive just before 11:30 a.m., which meant I had to be on the road before 7:30. And, hot damn, if I wasn't right on schedule.
Except.
As I roll down our driveway carpeted in fresh, powdered snow, I realize that the car I'm driving — our Honda Pilot — has less than a quarter tank of gas. And in that beast, a quarter tank of gas would barely get me to the next town.
So, about 15 minutes into my drive, I pull into Pete's Place South just outside Bemidji city limits to gas up.
Pull up to the pump. Snuggle my stocking cap over my ears. Stuff my hands into my mittens. And step out wondering why Minnesota, of all places, hasn't brought back full-service gas stations. Because I, for one, would pay top dollar for that little luxury on days like this.
Instead, bracing myself against the cold, head down to avoid the wind, I run my card through the pay-at-the-pump system. Nada. Try again. Still nothing. Hopping back and forth on either foot, I try a third time and get this message: "Please see attendant."
"Arrrrgh!" I think is my exact sentiment.
I run in to Pete's, stand in line behind a guy in a Carhartt jacket with an armful of breakfast sandwiches, and finally make it to the attendant.
"The pump won't take my card," I explain. "It says to see you?"
"All of our credit card machines are down," the woman behind the counter says. "You have to pay cash."
I have maybe 76 cents in my purse. Even if I empty the "take a penny / leave a penny" cup into my palm, we're still probably looking at $1.11, tops.
The counter attendant must be able to read this in my eyes. Or maybe it's the way I stare at her, mouth agape, as I try to come up with a solution that doesn't send me back into Bemidji, and late for my 11:30 MSP pick-up.
"There's an ATM in the back," the woman says to me. "If you want to use it."
I want to use it.
I make my way down the far aisle to the ATM and have just entered my PIN when the counter attendant — who is now helping the next man in line — calls back out to me.
"He says he has credit here if you just want to use that," she says.
"Yeah, I have a credit line here," the guy adds.
I turn to the duo, confused about how that would work. Was he offering to pay for my gas ... or just spot me a loan and I'd pay him back later?
"Wow, that's so kind," I answer. "Thank you so much! But I've already entered my card, so I can just pay cash."
There is the tiniest of beats before the woman at the counter yells, "I'm not talking to you."
She. wasn't. talking. to. me.
She was yelling to her co-worker in the office right next to the ATM, who had been trying to figure out how this man was going to pay for a big rig full of gas without using a card.
Thus commenced the longest ATM transaction of my life. I must've checked that receipt 5, 6 times waiting for that man to leave so I could show my face at the counter.
I guess it all worked out for him. He's going to settle up when he comes back through.
But I can now never, ever go there again.