Grace at the Gas Station

Beautiful sunset. Highlight of my day the other day, along with getting to the gas station at just the right time.

In a Time of Spiking Pump Prices and War

I got gas yesterday at my favorite gas station, which is just up the street from where I work. The national news is reporting that the average price of gas in the country is up to a whopping $3.68 a gallon, rising more than twenty percent in some areas because of the war that the president recently started with Iran.

Those of us who live in California are slightly amused by the horror that people in other states feel when gas goes up to these levels, since we’ve been paying more than $4.00 a gallon for what seems like forever. Recently, in the days before the war started, I was paying $4.39 a gallon for gas and didn’t think much about it—the higher cost of fuel here is a price I’m willing to pay for living in one of the most beautiful places on the planet. Also, some of the money we pay for gas is due to strict regulations that help protect the environment, which is something I support.

After the bombing started, the price of gas quickly rose $0.20 a gallon, up to $4.59, which I paid when I filled up last week. Then, since I knew I had a longer drive soon to do massages for some quilting friends in the Napa area, I stopped and topped off my tank Wednesday afternoon. By then, the price had risen to $4.79 a gallon. Which brings us to yesterday, when I needed to fill up my tank again after getting home from my road trip. The price was $4.99 a gallon.

I didn’t think much about the fact that a big tanker truck was there, filling up the station’s underground pumps. I pulled in next to it, went into the store, gave the clerk cash (because the thing I love best about this station is that you get the discounted rate for both cash and debit card transactions—I often use my debit card, but today I had a little cash), and went outside to fill my car. I have to say that I was grateful that this gas station, which doubles as a convenience market and liquor store, also traditionally has the best gasoline prices in the area. On the freeway on my way to work that morning, I noticed that the stations along the highway were already pricing their gas above $5.00 a gallon. To find a station that was at $4.99? It felt like a win.

Another win? I had a little change coming back after finishing my fill-up. I went back into the store to get my money, was first in line, and was greeted by the apologetic clerk, who said they had to restart the cash register system and that it would take a minute or so to get my change.

A line of patient customers formed behind me; we all waited for the register to reboot. Nobody was on their phone, which seemed unusual, and what was even nicer was that we chatted with each other—especially after the station manager came up to the counter and announced that the price of gas would be going up again, since the tanker had just finished its delivery, and that he had to go outside to change the prices on the sign. “Not for any of you, though,” he said. “Not for the people in line already.”

So there was something like gratitude and a little spark of joy for those of us in line, that we had gotten in at just the right time, before the gas jumped another $0.10 a gallon to $5.09.

“I paid $4.39 just a few days ago!” one of the men commented.

“I know,” I replied. “I know. But look at us—look at how lucky we are, getting here at the right time, missing the price increase by just a few minutes!”

And it seemed like everyone in line realized that, like we were grateful and were in this together. There were no complaints; no one blamed the station employees for the price jump. Everyone knew that all of this, right now, is out of their control—out of any of our control. It was a small thing on a Friday afternoon, but it was a grace. A few dollars in our pockets and the realization that we were in the right place at the right time—a gift we could share.