Nineteen Eighty-Four

(I wrote this on April 16, 2007. I was employed at a gas station back then but hadn't yet begun to keep a journal about my job. This was the event which prompted me to do so.)

One of the things I dislike about working with the public is that, every once in a while, I'll be in the delicate position of having to navigate around the socio-political beliefs of customers which do not mesh with my own. I have too much personal integrity to spontaneously change what I believe just so the Customer can Always Be Right; but at the same time, I try to be professional enough to not intentionally inflame them by outrightly disagreeing with them. It can be such a tight-rope balancing act at times that I'm often surprised to not hear a calliope playing in the background.

I was put on second shift yesterday. Second shift is like one eight-hour rush with thirty-second pauses for breath every few hours. I'm used to working third shift, where I'm virtually guaranteed the chance for an entire cigarette every two to three hours; if you're a smoker, you can imagine the kind of irritability I was suppressing around hour six without nicotine. If you're not a smoker, well, I'm just going to say that I was really champing at the bit and becoming short-tempered so that I can move on with the story.

I'm coming up on hour six of the shift when the next nameless face in the line comes to the counter. This nameless face is wearing military fatigues and brandishing a check book. He wishes to pre-pay twenty dollars in gas, and he insists on chatting as we go through the processing of his check. I'm going as quickly as I can, but I do have to verify name to face, address on check, and all those other things which take time and tend to piss off the people in line behind the one writing the check. It turns out the addresses on the check and driver's license differ, so I ask which one is correct:

"The check. Just got re-stationed again."

I'm noting this on the check when I absently ask if he likes it better here.

"It's, uh, it's different."

I'm now writing down the license number and state of issue, absently continuing the small talk: "Too soon to tell?"

"I'm just tired. Just got back from Iraq for the second time, and got two more years to go if they hold to their end of it."

Now he's got my attention. I look up, and really look at him. He's young, maybe twenty-two, and without any obvious injury. When I do bother to check out the daily propaganda, I also check it against the foreign propaganda, so I've got a better idea of what's really going on; and I can see this kid has been incredibly lucky so far. I'm no longer absent from the conversation. "I'm glad to see you've made it back alright. It'll be just a minute while I get an approval code."

The approval code doesn't come. Instead I'm instructed to not take the check due to a record of bounces. Company policy is that I'm not allowed to pass on this information to the customer; all I'm allowed to do is state that I cannot accept their check today, give them a slip of paper with an 800-number to call, and ask if they have another payment method.

"God damn it! I've been shot at every day for the last year, I'm back for three days, and I can't get any fucking gas?? This is bullshit!"

It's worth noting at this point that I live and work in a rather rural part of the Southeastern United States, smack-dab in the middle of Fox News Country. The nearest nationally-known city is about an hour and a half away from us. The closest thing approaching civilization is the University up the street from my place of business, which itself started out as an agricultural college not too long ago and is not the most cosmopolitan campus known to man, by a damn sight. The approximate demographic breakdowns of my area, based on my own observation, are that ethnically the area is split into thirds - White, Black, and Hispanic. Culturally, the area is split into about 70% Rubes, 20% Ghetto Rats, and 10% Everyone Else (pagans, new-agers, alien abductees, Art Bell listeners, academics, free-thinkers, etc.).

There's about ten people in line behind him, and now he's got their attention as well. I'm on stage, the sole act in the center ring, all spotlights trained on me as I'm on the high wire. I'm tired, I'm irritable, I'm nic-fitting, and I've really got to go pee. I'm not in the mood for performing, but I know there's no way out of it. I also know there's probably no way to perform without offending at least one person in line, so I decide to put his shit in the street:

"I'm sorry that you've been inconvenienced by this, sir, but I'm sure out of all the people in this store right now you are the one who understands best that the War on Terror is all about protecting our liberties here on American Soil. I'm sure you can also appreciate that our President, God bless him, has made it clear that American businesses such as this one are an essential part of our economy and that our economy must remain strong in the face of such immanent danger as you've personally fought against. You have your orders and I have mine, and if we don't all follow our orders, The Terrorists Will Win. I'm grateful to you for serving our country as you have and would hate to make your sacrifices meaningless by assisting the Terrorists in any way. Therefore, for your convenience, we also accept debit cards, all major credit cards, and good old American greenbacks. Which would you like to use today, sir?"

The look on his face suggested that this was the first time someone had not only resisted his use of the Military Card, but had done so using the Patriotism Card in such a way that he couldn't trump it without looking like a complete asshole. He mumbled an apology and headed out the door, ducking the glances of everyone else who'd been in line behind him.

To my immediate surprise, no one in line behind the soldier attempted to chastise me for this. As I rang each of them up, however, it became increasingly obvious that I had blown their minds and they didn't know what to think or how to react to what they had just witnessed. He had invoked "Support the Troops", something the predominantly White group of customers in the store at the time tends to strongly believe in. I had invoked "Homeland Security", something else these folks tend to strongly believe in. He had invoked "Military Elitism", which is related to "Support the Troops" but is not as bluntly disseminated to the masses as to be represented by a magnetic ribbon. I had invoked "American Jobs", which I know these people really believe in because I hear them complain daily about "those fuckin' Spics" who are stealing such coveted American jobs as cleaning toilets and planting hedges.

Not knowing how to react, we all just pretended nothing had happened and went about the business of purchasing gas, smokes, and booze. I had just about written all this off when one of the town's Unwashed Hippies got to the counter; he'd been at the back of the line when the semi-confrontation occurred. He was trying really hard to not crack up, and I figured he had a fit of the Weedy Giggles which I see so often.

"What can I get you, Paddy?"

"A pack of Victory Cigarettes, please."

I realized he was the only one in line who knew what I had just done. I handed him his chosen brand, barely managing to keep a straight face myself. "Doubleplusgood, Comrade. Three eighty-four."

The woman behind Paddy had missed the whole thing with the soldier and, not getting the literary references, asked us if we were Commies.

"Inside joke," I shrugged. She appeared unconvinced, and I mused that Ray Bradbury was right:

"You don't have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them."

Doubleplusgood, indeed.