Fear and Loathing in Southern Gas Stations

I lived in Georgia when I defended our nation from the scourge of Soviet musical units during my three years in an Army band. I knew then that tings were different in The South™ but these differences have evolved in the 35 years since I took off the uniform and returned north. The drive to St. Petersburg for Bouchercon pointed one key change out to me, namely how much harder it has become to buy gas in the Deep South.

4 September 2018

Ocala FL

The Beloved Spouse™ goes into the convenience store while I pump gas. A trailer full of beef cattle stare at me from the next island. I insert my credit card and withdraw it. The screen flashes and this appears:

Enter your PIN to continue.

For those of you either too high-class or clueless to pump your own gas (and you know who you are), credit cards don’t have PINs; debit cards do. I figures this happens from time to time, so I press Cancel and try again.

 Enter your PIN to continue.

I clean off the chip and the strip on my credit card and try again.

Enter your PIN to continue.

Now I’m remembering that stopping here for gas was not nearly as urgent as the other reason I wanted to get off the road, so I clear the entire transaction and start over.

Enter your PIN to continue.

Glancing at the cow trailer I swear they’re nudging each other and mooing, “This guy’s the top of the food chain?” I try again.

Enter your PIN to continue.

Now I’m pissed. I jerk out the card and say at a more than conversational decibel level, “Motherfucker, this is not a debit card!”

Enter your Zip Code to continue.

Okay. So now we know what it takes.

10 September 2018

Manning SC

TBS and I pull off of I-95 and have two gas stations to choose from. I choose the one on the left because I won’t have to cross the highway we’re on to get back to 95 when we come out. She goes in to use the necessary and I get gas.

This pump doesn’t even screw around with that PIN business.

Card not read.

I try again.

Card not read.

The card worked at dinner last night and all through Bouchercon. I wipe it off and re-insert.

Card not read.

It’s not taking as much to piss me off this morning. I’m still over 450 miles from home and not in the mood. Not in the habit of accommodating inanimate objects, I go to a different pump.

Card not read.

Now I’m mad. I try another card.

Card not read.

All right. Enough of this shit. We’re leaving. I go into the store to round up TBS to tell her we’re not buying anything here and I hope she stunk up the bathroom. We drive directly across the street to the station that would have been easier to get to in the first place. She goes inside to buy road food and I try my original card in the pump.

Card not read.

I go straight to the second card this time.

Card not read.

Now it’s time to escalate. “Who do I have to blow to buy gas in this town?”

Re-insert.

Enter your Zip Code to continue.

Okay, Florida and South Carolina. You had your fun with the Yankee liberal. Just don’t expect me to leave the light on for you when climate change puts your asses underwater.