The Station of Frustration

It was a dark and stormy night...okay; maybe not so much. But it was dark. There in a parking lot, ancient foes faced off against each other in a battle of skill and trickery. Who were these foes? One was me, a six-foot-something 170-some pound American with a little martial art training. The other, a tag team of British Petroleum pumps which were stuck into the ground.
Earlier that day, I was chosen to drive our extension team to church that Wednesday night. I was perfectly fine with this—the roads were quite clear and safe for this part of winter. Still, I decided to take an alternate way to our church in Escanaba. What I was concerned about was my gas tank—it was getting a little low. In a Wisconsin winter, it's a good precaution to never let your tank get too far past the halfway line.
On our way to Escanaba, I kept track of all the gas stations we passed, looking for the lowest prices. $3.79, $3.82, $3.87...the lowest I saw was $3.72, close to Northland. Hopefully, we would leave church soon enough that I could grab some gas and get to work on time.
On the way back, I decided to take the regular way back to Northland. Highway 8 wasn't too bad, so it couldn't be that bad on County Z. As I drove down the road, I happened to spy a tiny little BP station with a single sign on it, radiating light like a ruby disco ball: $3.62. A whole ten cents cheaper than the one in Dunbar. I couldn't pass this up.

A beacon of light becomes a cloud of darkness...

The station probably hadn't been cleaned since Reagan took a detour through that town. Only two pumps were outside. A semi truck that rivaled Paul Bunyan in size rumbled in the parking lot, letting his carbon footprint grow several shoe sizes. I climbed out to begin pumping while my friends, Michael and Sharée, stepped inside to grab some stuff.
The first pump was armored with multiple layers of dust, dirt, mud, exhaust, ice, and snow. A dimly lit olive-green screen stared at me out of the darkness, demanding I insert my card. The faded letters on the screen hinted that this machine was powered by agile snails. I pulled out my credit card and swiped it, only to face the greatest peeve of the first world... I hit a mental block on what my PIN was. Unfortunately, by the time I remembered, the pump canceled my swipe. "No matter," I thought. "I can solve this in no time. I'll just swipe again."
The pump was unsatisfied with the speed of my second swipe. Slightly annoyed, I went in for a third swipe, which finally worked. I entered my PIN and waited for the pump to recognize my purchase. Just then, I remembered...I wanted to use the debit card, not the credit card. Seems like a minor problem, but the debit could save me a bit more money. I canceled my purchase, which in and of itself took about thirty seconds for the pump to process. By this time, Michael and Sharée had gotten back into the car.
When your passengers climb into the vehicle before you begin pumping, it means something's taking too long. It means that the pump means business. It means...THIS IS ON.
Staring the pump in its ugly face, I slipped the credit card back into my pocket and revealed my debit card, swiping it through the slot so smoothly that the pump would never have a problem with the speed. I thought I had this nailed...this pump had no route of escape now. He was cornered, forced to fulfill to my will and fill my Ford with fossil fuels...actually, I drive a Chevy. I just wanted to say something that sounded cool.
But the pump had one more trick up its sleeve. Years of use had worn its processing units down to the wire. The screen revealed a message of frustration: "ERROR OCCURRED. PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN."
Cue headbanging on pump.
With no other option, I swiped my card again, only for the pump to pull the same trick again. I swiped one more time, knowing that the third time is always the charm. And so it was. I fist pumped the air in victory as my other fist grabbed the pump and slipped the nozzle into the tank. I pulled the lever, waiting to feel the gas kick the nozzle as it breathed sweet Arabian nectar into my silver chariot.

The time for victory had come...or had it?

But I never felt the kick. I stared back at the olive-green screen. "INSERT NOZZLE AND PULL LEVER," it commanded. I had pulled the lever, and continued to pull it several times as if more pulls would bring a kick. I even removed the nozzle from the tank and pulled the lever several times, looking for any gas that might leak out. Nothing.
Though it accepted defeat, the pump had one more weapon: confusion. Without gas, I would lose. No matter what I had done before, everything had come down to this moment, and the pump suddenly had the upper hand. But I wasn't about to give up gas this cheap. I would find my way. I could go the distance. I'd get gas someday if I knew I could be strong. I knew every mile would be worth my while. I could go most anywhere for fuel that lasts this long.
Yes, I did just rewrite a Disney song.
I tried one more time with this pump. Swipe, PIN, insert nozzle, pull lever. Nothing.
Cue headbanging on trunk of car.
As I lifted my aching head, I spied the second pump just ahead. Perhaps it would work. Perhaps it was willing to accept money and share the liquefied remains of a dinosaur fossil. Perhaps those kick marks on the side of the pump meant nothing antagonistic.
Perhaps it was just as much of a jerk as the first pump.
The second pump wasn't working either. I held the nozzle in one hand and ran my other hand through my hair as I dropped to my knees, asking for some sort of sign of what was wrong with this pump. Suddenly, light filled the gas station. Latin chanting began as a woman descended from the sky. She wore a badge. It read "Samantha."
That's what it seemed like. Michael and Sharée would say that an old lady waddled out of the station.
"Yon weary traveler hast traversed a great distance," she whispered. "And when he comes to water his mount at the well, it appeareth dry. Doest this be what trouble thee, pilgrim?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Ah, so many have said. Yon pumps have resisted to forsake their elixir. They hast performed a great theater of confusion in an effort to starve the needy. But there is a different reading of the screen, a reading thou hast not considered." Samantha touched the pump where the nozzle had been resting. "Thou must lift the support of the nozzle. Observe, pilgrim? Yon support also be a lever." With those words, the Latin chanting again sounded and she faded into a snowy breeze.
Again, Michael and Sharée would say something different happened, but my telling is a lot cooler.

Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem...*smack*

I followed the instructions of Samantha. I lifted the support, and the pump beeped in approval. I placed the nozzle back into the tank and pulled the lever. There it was...that familiar kick from the gas flow. Latin chanting again filled the air, stirring the universe with such majesty that everything radiated with light.
Upon the spot, I invented a Happy Gas Dance as I grabbed my receipt and pranced back to the car.