A Little Something

There is a man camped out at the air hose at my favorite gas station. 


Well, it has been my favorite gas station, & mostly for the fact that the gas station employees seem to be able to keep the beggars away from the car while I am waiting for my gas to be pumped.  It's bad enough being accosted for money all the time because I look like a tourist, but worse at the gas station, where I am kind of stuck there - at least for a little while.  Not only stuck, but stuck with the window open.  Like the pitcher plant with the flies, a stopped car with the windows open & some white lady at the wheel appears to be an opportunity that no self-respecting beggar can ignore!


I used to feel bad for these people.  After three years,  they are mostly annoying.


I was at the wrong gas station last week (sorry Shell).  The lady with no teeth leaned into my window & told me good morning.  I told her good morning.  The gas station attendant came along & made "shooing" gestures at the woman, which sent her packing all of 10 feet.  Next on my to-do list was the rasta man for coconuts, which was just around the corner.  The lady with no teeth did have good eyesight, however, & she followed me.


"Good morning." she perches on my door handle again.  
"Good morning," I say, "I remember you - I saw you at the gas station!"  I act surprised.  The rasta man shoots her an evil glare while he machete's my coconuts.  Believe me, if the rasta man glared at me like that while wielding his machete I think I'd be in hurry to be someplace else.  She has no fear, however, & bends over to look inside my car.
"Yes, yes," she smiles, exposing all her gums.
"Well," I joke, "I hope you are not going to follow me HOME!"
"Yes, I am.  I am going to come home with you & you will take care of me & give me clothes & give me food & give me-"
"Really!  That's a lot of giving!"  I exclaim.  She obviously has an inflated expectation of both my generosity & my domestic skills.  "You ought to talk to my boys - they don't think I give them anything!",  which elicited a chuckle from the rasta man.  


The rasta man then elbows past her to give me my coconuts, one by one. He glares at her again.  He does not seem to think her presence is an asset to his business.  As he turns back to get another coconut, she leans in an whispers, with a darting glance at the rasta man.  "No, really, can you give me something?  Can you give me something?  A little something... "
"I'm sorry,"  I shake my head, "I know how this works.  If I give you something today, then you won't be happy.  You'll just want something again tomorrow.  & again the next day.  & then before I know it you will be sitting here waiting for me every day.  God knows I don't want that."
My little speech obviously resonated deep inside her being, because she leaned in once again & whispered, "A banana?  A mango?"


So what does this have to do with the man at the air hose?  Well, like I said, back at the Total gas station I used to live a carefree & beggarless life.  But now the man at the air pump is there...


My husband went to put air in the tires the other day & he gets my 15 year old son out of the car to learn about the manly business of car maintenance.  We were waiting behind a taxi, who was receiving the services of the self-appointed Keeper of the Hose. After which, he expects to receive some reward, of course.  Well, my husband is not one to go about rewarding people for something he prefers to do himself, so out of the car he jumped.
"I pump the air." said the man.
"No thanks, I will do it myself,"  said my husband, reaching for the nozzle that the man is holding.
"I work here!"  the man exclaims vehemently.  Well, he may "work" here, but he is not wearing a uniform, so my husband is not swayed.
"No, I want to do it myself."  he reaches for the nozzle again & the man won't let go, so there ensues a bit of a tug-o'-war, while my son stands by waiting to receive the nozzle once my husband frees it from the grasp of this guy.


The man suddenly releases the hose with a grand gesture of wiping his hands of the whole issue, & stalks around my husband & son like a lion as they put the air in the tires.  The man goes on & on, complaining about the way my son is pumping the air, & how it would be so much better if HE could pump the air HIMSELF.  Getting no response from either of my men out there on the battlefield, he then turns to a nearby fellow & switches over to patois while he tells the other guy about the many faults of my husband, my son, white people, rich people, etc. etc, with now and then a "dis bomboclat" thrown in (which can be roughly translated as meaning "this asshole").  


Well, so we got the air.  But I am normally the air-getter & the gas tank-filler & my problem is this.  Today the Man at the Air Hose has left his station & is trolling for business - he is now coming up to check people's tires while the gas is pumping.  Then he declares that they certainly need air & attempts to lure them over to the air station.  When they say no, the man shouts after them.  What - I don't know.  But probably the word "bomboclat" features prominently in the monologue.  Is there anywhere left that a lady can get gas & be left in peace? 


'Course, there is another Total about 10 miles away...