Full service: A tank of gas and a clean windshield

I’m not sure what made me start thinking about it. Maybe it was watching ridiculously high gasoline prices descend to a more reasonable rate, one that we thought was ridiculously high six months ago.

Have you noticed how few honest-to-goodness gas stations there are these days? You know, places that sold gasoline, maybe had a small garage where you could get your oil changed and maybe a flat fixed. There doesn’t seem to be as many of those around any more.

Nowadays, we mostly get gas at convenience stores. In fact, it’s as if selling gas is a sideline to selling Slurpees, Slim Jims and Salems. That’s because even with oil companies making profits that could finance Third World-countries for a couple hundred years, the folks with the pumps aren’t making that much from gasoline sales, hence the drinks, snacks, smokes and all the other items you find in convenience stores.

But, do you remember the old-fashioned gas station? When I was in high school, I worked at one. It was owned by Joe Minnick. Mr. Joe had a full head of white hair, usually wore khakis, always had a King Edward cigar in his mouth and spoke in a low, fast manner. You had to listen really closely to catch everything he said. I’m not sure how many years Mr. Joe had his station there, although I remembered it always being there on the west side of DeKalb.

It was a typical gas station — cinder block building in need of a paint job, big plate glass windows in front and on one side, a glass front door, an awning over the drive that mostly kept the rain off, four pumps on the island just underneath the edge of the awning and a hose stretched across the drive that rang a bell in the station whenever a customer drove across it. On one side of the building were the restrooms you could access with the keys that hung by the front door. On the other was a small shop with a tire machine where flats were fixed, and beside it a one-bay garage (if I remember right) with a carlift where you could do oil changes or minor mechanic work.

Inside the station itself was Mr. Joe’s office, a wooden counter with a credit card machine and a glass case that had some candy bars, peanuts, chips and bubble gum. There was a coke machine by the door (it didn’t matter what brand they were, in my part of Texas it always was a coke machine) and a few other shelves with oil cans, fan belts and other automotive accessories.

For a while, Dad worked for Mr. Joe part-time, doing a some mechanic work for customers to make a little extra money. I was in my teens — not old enough by today’s standards to have the job — and I went to work there, too, a few nights a week and on Saturdays to make pocket money. Mr. Joe liked you to stay busy. If there wasn’t gas to pump, then there was sweeping to do, or windows to clean, or shelves to arrange. When all that was done, well, you could listen to the radio or read, but usually there was plenty to do.

Those days were long before self-service. Nobody pumped their own gas. When a car pulled up beside the pump, you were right there on the spot if you saw it, or dropped whatever else you were doing when the bell clanged. You always asked the customer, “Fill it up?” Much of the time they’d say yes, otherwise they’d answer, “Oh, give me 10 gallons,” or “Nah, just couple of dollars’ worth.” Then, a couple of dollars’ could get you six or seven gallons of gas. (Now, a couple of dollars worth won’t fill a lawn mower.)

You also always asked if the customer needed the oil or tires checked. Sometimes they did, sometimes they didn’t. If the oil was low, you’d ask what kind of oil did they want and put it in. If the tires were low, you pumped air into them.

And you always washed the windshield. Always, unless it was raining. Slap on the water and cleaning solution with a sponge, then wipe it off with a clean shop cloth, usually the one hanging from the rear pocket of your pants, (unless you’d wiped oil from the dipstick on it). For good measure, you could clean the headlights, too. I got pretty good at making windshields shine.

Sometimes, we’d get customers who had a flat tire. Mr. Joe taught me how to repair a flat, how to get an inner tube out of the tire and patch it, and how to get a tubeless tire off the wheel rim and patch or plug it. Those were good skills that I haven’t needed or used for many years, but at the time I felt cool being able to repair a flat and get somebody back on the road.

Business was steady, especially on Saturdays, when everyone seemed to come to town. I liked those busy days because they went fast, there wasn’t time for boredom to set in and it just felt good when the day was done.

Today, it’s rare to stop where someone rushes out to pump your gas, and forget getting your windshield washed. If you have a flat, you just about have to find a garage or a tire store to get it fixed. And if you can afford to fill your tank, it costs more than I ever got paid a week working for Mr. Joe, and I thought I was doing well for a high-school kid.

Mr. Joe’s station closed many years ago, along with so many other full-service stations. And that’s a shame.