A Recurring Curiosity At The Petrol Station

When I arrived at the petrol station this morning, I was surprised to bear witness to the quite alarming sight of, I’ll just say it, an employee drinking petrol straight from the pump. It’s not something you expect to see when you amble up to the BP garage on a Saturday morning, and needless to say it gave me quite a fright. I had been very happily enjoying my serene stroll back from the park and this was a most unpleasant disruption to my melancholy daydreams, most unpleasant indeed. I don’t expect glittering service from a garage, I get a bit of grumbling, I wouldn’t want to be spending my Saturday morning working either, but this was simply beyond the pale. Frankly, he was taking the piss. I looked into the shop and confirmed the counter was unmanned, and yet here was this buffoon slurping down gasoline without any regard to his customers, proving something of a hindrance to my customary Saturday morning purchase of BBQ Hula Hoops. I glanced around, more in hope than expectation, hoping to see another disgruntled customer to bear the brunt of the social responsibility, but I saw that I was alone in wanting early morning crisps from the BP garage and thus the burden fell to me.
“Ahem.” I gently cleared my throat. He didn’t respond, his seemingly unquenchable thirst clearly a higher priority than me for the moment. Nevertheless, I persisted. “Excuse me!” I raised my voice above the noise of premium diesel splashing on concrete and he looked up, the flow from the pump momentarily halted. Looking into my eyes was a young man, early twenties, with blonde hair and a goatee. He wiped his chin clean of the fuel dripping down his beard. This was the man to whom I was supposed to trust my loose change? You have got to be kidding me. “Why are you drinking petrol?” I started to say, but before I could get out the question, he interrupted with a thumbs up and replied.
“I’ll be with you in one minute!” He called, and returned to his previous state of ingesting fuel. Very well. As someone to take a man at his word, I duly proceeded into the shop and made my selection from the crisps aisle. I dropped my BBQ Hula Hoops on the counter and looked out the window back to the pumps, the man was reinserting his diesel pump into the dock and hurrying over to the shop. He rounded the counter and picked up the scanner. “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.” He smiled. Aside from distinctly bloodshot eyes, he seemed very put together.
“That’s quite alright, I don’t mind a wait!” I replied cheerily, readying my debit card. “Wait, hang on! Yes, I do! What on earth were you doing drinking petrol out there?! Don’t you know this country is going through a fuel crisis right now?”
“Is it?” He asked, a look of genuine puzzlement on his face. “I don’t really know about that stuff, I get petrol for free working here.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“That’ll be one pound, please.” He requested. I paused for a moment, then tapped my card with enough vigour to let it be known that I was still very much annoyed by this ordeal. I don’t like what he’s doing, and it’s quite upsetting to see on a Saturday morning, but this was a free country, and I suppose, technically speaking, what he chooses to do on his break is not any of my business. I picked up my Hula Hoops.
“Well, cheers. Have a good day.” I turned around and made for the exit.
“And you!” He chimed back.

It wasn’t until a few days had passed that I next needed to use the petrol station, not that I had been avoiding it, the incident I witnessed before, while shocking, was not something that had been playing on my mind. I had meant to tell my girlfriend about it when I got home, but I’d finished the crisps and so it merely slipped my mind as I walked through the door to the sight of her mid-jubilance, having just finished the difficult sudoku in the Saturday Standard. The week started, sure as the sun rising, and I went back to work, not giving a moment’s thought to petrol stations or their maladjusted employees. It was Tuesday evening when I next thought of the grotesque act that I had seen over the weekend. And the reason I remembered it was because I was strolling back from work past the BP garage and I saw the same thing again! The same man drinking petrol straight from the tap! Has he been doing this the whole time? For the sake of his health, I hope his shift schedule hasn’t been too congested over the weekend, there’s only so much petrol the human stomach can take. But he was apparently yet to reach that mortal limit, and in the meantime I fancied a Kinder Bueno, there was only one thing for it. There were no other customers around once again, (does this damn garage get any business?), so I went to approach him. He had opted for a different tact this week. He now had his mouth sealed around the nozzle, guzzling it down like a baby with its bottle, that could not be hygienic. I haven’t mentioned it, but the first time I witnessed this curiosity, he had been lapping at the fuel flowing out with his tongue, much like a dog, hence the wet chin. Not that I’m in the business of judging petrol-drinking technique, but now I think about it, this new method is quite obviously superior to anyone with half a mind. And as I made myself known behind him, the effect of this increased efficiency showed on his face. He turned to face me, with notably bagged eyes, now even more bloodshot and slightly yellowing, and the rest of his face quite an unbecoming sickly pale. Clearly he had indeed had a few shifts over the weekend.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled gesturing to the shop, “I was gonna-”
“Righto!” He interrupted me with what was fast becoming a trademark thumbs up. “Be there in a jiffy!” I made my way into the shop as he bent back down to take one last gulp from the nozzle. I noted how impressive it was actually, that he was able to pump petrol without that infuriating clicking that results from the nozzle not being pressed into the hubcap hole of the car. Must be a trick of the trade, I suppose, maybe all petrol station attendants know how to coax petrol out of the pump in the open air, though I’d be surprised if any utilised that knowledge to as great a degree as my friend. I was starting to develop a begrudging respect for this man.
“Just the chocolate for me today please, my good man.” I sung.
“Right you are. Anything for your friend?” He replied, scanning the Kinder Bueno.
“What friend?” I looked around, if there was someone behind me in the queue, I hadn’t seen them, and they certainly weren’t my friend. “Oi!” I had turned back to see the employee had scanned not only the outer wrapper of the Kinder Bueno, but had unwrapped it, and was attempting to scan the two internal wrappers that each held their own half of the chocolate wafer. “What are you doing, you dolt?! There’s not even any barcode on that!”
Beeeep, a noise emanated from the scanner, how did he manage that? It’s clear plastic!
“That’ll be £1.20, please.” He said, with a distinct look of detachment from my words. Whatever, here you go, I don’t have to deal with this shit.

It was only two short days later that I found myself back at the BP garage, it was becoming quite the occurrence, especially for an indiviudual without a car. I told myself that I was desperately craving a can of coke on my walk back from my Thursday 6-a-side, maybe that was true. I think if I really searched myself, I would accept that there was something else that was really drawing me back, something much greater and yet, much more human. It’s not often you get to witness first-hand the decline of a fellow man at a rapid pace. It started with an impatient itch at breakfast, wondering how he was getting on, but by dinnertime it had transformed into a full-on primal hunger to spectate the live theatre of this blue-collar oddity’s tragic, puzzling performance, taken in at regular intervals, one five-minute snack stop at a time. It was only a short detour from my usual route back from football for this can of coke, a much nicer walk along the edge of the park as well. When I drew nearer towards the place, my eyes snapped to pump number two, sure as anything, there he was again, same as before, lips forming a tight seal around the nozzle, like a grimy, industrial kiss of life. Hands in my pockets, I moseyed on up to pump two and leaned a casual shoulder against the pillar.
“Good evening, need a can of coke, whenever you’ve got a moment.” I said. “No rush!” I added hastily, with a cautious hand up, keen not to disturb his rhythm or throw off his groove. I was only a few feet away, but I thought at first that he must not have heard me, glued to the nozzle such as he was. I was mistaken though, as a moment later, with much effort, he pried the nozzle from his mouth. The moment it was out he spluttered for air, like he had forgotten he could breathe out of his nose as he drank. He looked at me with his great, staring eyes, like he had just been awoken from a meeting with the divine.
“What?” He questioned. He then looked around wildly as if there were others all around, in my confusion, or maybe to impress him, so did I. But it was still just me and him.
“Can of coke?” I muttered, pointed to the shop. He let out a loud burp.
“OH MY GOD! THE SHOP!” He stood bolt upright and hared off toward the building. He ran with so much fervour that he must not have noticed the glass door in the entrance because, with no reduction in his speed, he ran face-first into it and knocked himself backwards onto the concrete. Not hurt, or even remotely fazed, he popped himself back up, opened the door and ran inside. I followed into the shop with a bit more haste in my stride. Inside the shop, he had hidden behind the counter, and not very well either. For he immediately popped up when I opened the door and pointed his fingers at me in the shape of a gun. I turned around to face the drinks fridge and make my selection, I still hadn’t decided on coke or cherry coke, assuming I would know which one I wanted when I laid my eyes on the two choices, not as easy as I thought with a restless clerk at the other side of the shop making gun noises out of his mouth.
“How’s business been?” I asked, having withdrawn the regular coke from the fridge.
“What business?” He bit back. He grabbed the coke out of my hand and scanned the barcode. “Weren’t you here earlier?”
“No, that was Tuesday.” I replied. “Are you well?”
“Ha! I wouldn’t start asking questions about who’s well if I had that thing on my face!” He laughed, pointing at my nose. I reached up a hand to feel it, it felt normal.
“You mean my nose?” I said.
“No, the other thing! The one between your eyes… with the two little holes in it!”
“That is my nose! You’ve got one too!” I pointed my own finger squarely back at him. His eyes widened, both of his hands raced to his face to find that, indeed, there was a large fleshy, bony feature slap-bang in the middle of his face. He ran his fingers along it, feeling the entire way up the bridge.
“Oi! Look alive!” I said, snapping my fingers in front of his face in a vain attempt to bring him back to reality. “How much for the coke?”
“One hundred pounds.” He said matter-of-factly, still not bringing his hands down from his face.
“What?! I know prices are rising but that can’t be right, no one’s gonna pay a hundred quid for a coke!” I stammered.
“That’s fine, just give me 10p now and you can pay the rest in installments.” He seemed quite distracted by the continued presence of a nose on his face. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I fumbled around my pockets for a 10p coin and handed it over. He immediately threw it on the floor beside him.
“Thanks, have a good evening.”
“And you.” I took my coke and left the shop.

The next day I worked from home, as I often do on Friday. Though I must admit I was finding it hard to focus on my work with thoughts of the BP garage worker swimming around my head, I had planned to go and drop in after work, but was blindsided by my girlfriend announcing that we had plans to go out and socialise with friends of ours. Throughout the night I was fretting and fidgeting constantly, habitually checking my watch. My girlfriend quickly clocked onto my behaviour because and saw me eyeing the door of the pub every few minutes, and every time gave me a stern shake of the head. BP closing-time came and went, and I solemnly accepted that I would just have to go the next day. I awoke bright and early on Saturday, anxious to get out into the apricity of the London morning. I followed my usual walking route, not one to take shortcuts for instant gratification, circling the common with an increasingly brisk pace and finally got my reward. For the third time this week I came upon the sight of the BP garage, in all its lime green splendor. I looked to pump number two, only to see it strangely empty. A quick glance into the shop revealed that the counter was unexpectedly staffed, in fact there was a customer being served. Well, no show outside today, but I’d still have a good interaction with him inside the shop. I waltzed through the door and took my place behind the middle-aged man in the queue, eager to chat to the clerk.
“Thanks, hun. Have a good day.” My heart sank. That wasn’t the voice of my goatee-sporting, gas-guzzling friend. The man in front of me collected up his purchases and exited the queue. I stepped forwards and was greeted by the friendly smile of a dinner-lady type in BP uniform.
“What happened to the bloke who was working here Thursday evening?” I asked, stepping forward.
“Hm? I don’t know who that was I’m afraid.” She replied.
“He was about my height, had a goatee…” I offered.
“Oh yes! I know the one! I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but he died last night.”

I guess that’s what happens when you drink petrol.

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