My Dog is Chelsea

Here in Oregon, we’re not allowed to pump our own gas. It’s a very bizarre law, but it’s totally fine with me because I am lazy and don’t want to get out of my car to fuel it up.

Anyway, this morning I rolled up to the Arco for a fill-up. Rather than waste the time and energy to walk around my car to take my order at my window, the attendant immediately recognized a quicker access point, conveniently located above the gas tank:

He peered through the crack in the plastic. “Fill it up?” he asked with a straight face.

I burst out laughing. It was like looking at someone’s eye when they’re peering through a keyhole, which never happens in real life since a) no one has keyholes anymore b) no one actually peers through them anyway and c) you can’t really see someone’s eye when they’re looking through a keyhole because it’s too dark. But you know the image:

So it looked like that, minus the keyhole. It was too much: a car with no back window, a slash in the side window, duct tape on the other, weeds growing in the trunk and moss lining the carpeting—and a gas station attendant peering into the hole in the plastic like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Yeah, I guess. Fill’er up.”