Under the Pump: Anecdotes of a Service Station Operator

By Josh Francis

Of all the occupations where you are required to interact with people, customer service is probably the one where you get to see the greatest variety of characters. This is especially true when working at a service station - the servo. As a console operator, there are plenty of opportunities to see the myriad of society, both the good and the bad.
Under the Pump is a compilation of anecdotes, ranging from the comical to the morbid, about the many events that occurred during the author's time behind the cash register.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645364771

Josh Francis

Josh Francis holds a Bachelor of Arts and Graduate Diploma in Education from the University of Adelaide in Australia. After graduation and working for a short time as a high school teacher, Josh served 16 years in the Australian Army, where he completed tours of East Timor, Afghanistan, and Iraq. This is his first book.

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About The Author

Josh Francis holds a Bachelor of Arts and Graduate Diploma in Education from the University of Adelaide in Australia. After graduation and working for a short time as a high school teacher, Josh served 16 years in the Australian Army, where he completed tours of East Timor, Afghanistan, and Iraq. This is his first book.

Dedication

To Mum

Copyright Information ©

Josh Francis (2020)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Francis, Josh

Under the Pump

ISBN 9781643786575 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781643786582 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781645364771 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019920959

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

[e-mail]

[phone]

Introduction (Ch. 1)

Of all the occupations where you are required to interact with people, customer service is probably the one where you get to see the greatest variety of characters. This is especially true when working at a service station – the servo. As a console operator, there is plenty of opportunity to see the myriad of society, both the good and the bad.

The operator’s role is to ensure the pumps keep pumping and to facilitate the customers desire to quickly refill their car, grab a snack or two, and then be on their way. Unfortunately, some of those customers think this entitles them to treat the operator in a demeaning and belittling manner, i.e., ‘the customer is always right.’ This attitude prevails in all customer-service sectors. Having said that, the vast majority of customers are friendly and engaging, and the greatest joy in working in customer service is interacting with these types of people.

This makes the servo an intersection of society where people of all types will inevitably pass through, allowing for keen observation of the comical behavior of human nature. For two years, whilst completing my university studies, I was one of these unsung heroes who kept the petrol bowsers of Adelaide running. I worked for a fuel company that ran a total of nine servos across the northern suburbs. Many of those servos no longer exist. They have either been replaced by other shops or are now managed by other major fuel companies.

As a valuable member of the servo cadre, I ensured that many a drunk could obtain a late-night meat pie, a mother could obtain milk for her children first thing in the morning, or a teenager having recently obtained their license could refuel their parents’ car in a last-minute rush to try and get home to meet curfew. This seemingly routine job was to be my initiation to the great many personalities living in the community, whose common link was that they all at some point utilized the various services provided by the little shops with the oil-stained forecourts that hug the roads and highways of the nation.

It was after I had crashed my parents’ car into a light pole while delivering pizzas that I decided that I needed an occupation a little more grounded. In keeping with the motoring-related employment theme I had already started, I applied for a position at the local service station. It was actually a position that I had applied for several months earlier but had simply heard nothing more about. It was most fortuitous that while crashing the car, a manager at the local servo was looking over my resume. I received a phone call one morning and was asked to attend an interview at the head office.

During my initial interview for the position, I was introduced to Mick, the head manager of the company that ran the servos in the local area. Depending on roster, and because all the computer systems that made up the cash register were universal, I would be expected to work at any one of them, depending on my own availability. As I would soon find out, location is everything in the service station game, both in terms of customer numbers and types. Mick took great delight in regaling about how two men had recently robbed a local competitor late one evening. Not satisfied with just the evening’s takings, the two brazen thieves tied up the solo operator out the back of the servo and then continued to take turns operating the shop for the next hour, only slightly increasing their illicit gains. What balls they must have had! Mick loudly laughed, gesturing by holding his arms out as if he was hugging one of those big bouncy balls people sometimes use at the gym. Don’t worry though, he added. You’ll be okay. They don’t usually try that more than once. With my fears about working alone late at night barely allayed, I commenced my first shift a few days later. I was not entirely convinced that the faux operators hadn’t been emboldened by their recent performances and might give consideration to attempting to repeat their efforts at some stage.

Learning the Ropes (Ch. 2)

The Student and the Sherriff

My first few shifts were to be conducted under the watchful gaze of an experienced operator who would show me through the ropes. I was expected to complete a task book in order to be considered qualified. However, two years after I commenced working, it still hadn’t seen a drop of ink. I would predominantly be operating solo, apart from day shifts on weekends when a ‘junior,’ a high-school-aged employee, would work with me. He would be responsible for minor cleaning jobs, filling gas bottles and helping do whatever non-cash management tasks were required. On my first shift, I accompanied Jo, a young and attractive female teaching student, at one of the servos in an industrial estate in a place called Cavan, which was between two major suburban arterial roads. I had never worked in customer service before, apart from the stint driving pizzas around for hungry (or perhaps lazy) homeowners. My only other job had been as a cook at one of the large fast food restaurant chains. I watched and learned off Jo eagerly, keen to understand the processes, mostly to show that I was capable of doing the job so I could start my own shifts, as I would only be on half pay whilst in training. Jo constantly emphasized the need for good customer service. She explained how the company set a high standard and how the bosses expected these standards to be followed by all the staff members. I was a little shocked by how particularly rude some customers could be, but I was equally impressed by the way Jo maintained a smile and just got on with the job. I was determined to have the same level of professionalism.

After three shifts, I was deemed competent by Jo and given my first solo shift, a Sunday afternoon beginning at about lunchtime and going until about six p.m. The industry was highly unionized, so operators could work no longer than six hours without a break. But because there was only one operator on at any given time, we would only do shifts lasting six hours before swapping with another staff member. That was the theory at least, because I ended up doing numerous shifts which went for more than the designated six hours. It was a case of finding the time to take a breather where you could get it while on duty. It was generally expected that to do the job well, you simply had to have a reasonable understanding of all things retail and motoring, ranging from what sales specials were on at any given time, what type of fuel each car required to which fuses went into which headlight depending on the making of car.

I arrived for my first shift in plenty of time to allow a cash-till count with Roger, an affable man in his late fifties who was working part-time to supplement his regular employment as a tax agent. He made sure that everything was in place for the shift handover and then went on his way. I was now solo behind the counter, awaiting my first customer with great trepidation.

I didn’t have to wait long. A neat-looking Holden sedan drove into the forecourt and pulled up to the outer row of pumps. Most servos had two rows of pumps, allowing four lanes to effectively be used at any given time. Typically, the diesel and Liquid Petroleum Gas (LPG) pumps received less use and were located on the other side of the forecourt. Two tall males exited the car, with one moving to the pump to remove the nozzle to place into his car’s tank. A shrill beeping noise emanated from the register, startling me. All pumps had to be authorized by the operator before they would start pumping fuel, and a simple tap on the cash register button made this happen. The loud beeping was to alert operators to the presence of a customer in case we were out in the back storeroom or otherwise engaged. The second, more serious-looking individual approached the shop. Dressed neatly in tie and slacks, he was wearing large aviator sunglasses and his hair was slicked back like in the photos often adorning the walls of a barbershop. Something black and bulky was sitting on his hip which I couldn’t quite make out. As he opened the door and stepped in, I noticed that it was a large handgun. My heart jumped for a quick moment until I saw the badge of the South Australian Police Force sitting flush on his other hip.

Not far from the servo, neatly tucked down the road and on the corner of one the main roads, was the local pub. Most of the servos in the company were near, if not next to, a pub. This often came in handy after a busy shift! This particular one was infamous for its topless waitresses, as much as it was for its patronage by the local outlaw motorcycle club. Where there is (perceived) criminality, it follows that there will be the police. Good morning, sir, I meekly said whilst trying to not let any signs of my inexperience show. The officer stood at the door, slowly turning his head to survey the inside of the shop before finally turning to look in my general direction, but without removing his glasses.

Morning, came the very curt and uncommitted reply. He slowly sauntered over to the newspaper shelf and picked up a sports magazine, looking through the pages whilst chewing ever more loudly on a piece of gum. Busy day? I asked, trying to be polite and make some basic conversation as Jo had taught me to. The officer continued to look at the magazine and very slightly shook his head from side-to-side, not saying a word. He appeared to be very arrogant. I wanted to tell him to stop being so rude, but I remembered my earlier promise to myself to remain professional.

So, there we both stood in complete silence whilst his partner stood outside filling the tank. The loud tone of a beep coming from the register, different in sound from the earlier one, broke the silence, indicating that the pump had been placed back onto the bowser. Will there be anything else, sir? I politely but sarcastically asked, letting my intolerance for his deportment show, if ever so slightly. Still wearing his aviators, the cop placed the magazine down on the incorrect location on the shelf and proceeded to withdraw his wallet, fiddling around and pulling out almost everything in it before finally making the payment using a work-issued fuel card. Many businesses had credit cards which were linked to the fuel company for tax purposes, though I often saw people filling up cars that I’m certain weren’t being used for business purposes.

I processed the transaction, returning the card to him whilst waiting for the receipt to print off out of the very noisy docket printer. Without having uttered a further word than his initial token greeting, he signed for the receipt. Have a good day then, sir, was my very insincere parting comment, to which the officer finally looked at me. He raised his head slightly, brought his hand up to his glasses, lowered them over his nose a little, gave a big grinning smile, and winked at me. He placed the pen he signed the docket with back down on the counter, pushed his glasses back over his nose, and started proceeding out the door. Although slightly disheartened at the demeanor of my first customer, I was nonetheless happy I had managed to conduct the transaction without stuffing it all up. I figured that if that was the worst I would experience, then I’d be okay.

Sign of the Times

My main responsibilities included making the cash transactions, maintaining shop cleanliness, stocking the shelves and fridges, monitoring fuel levels in the large tanks underneath the forecourts, and most importantly, to closely monitor the competitor’s servo situated across the road for any price changes. Virtually, all the servos I worked at were located opposite a competitor of one type or another, and any changes in fuel prices were to be phoned in to the fuel manager to either match the price change or to maintain our current price. It was only years later that I realized that all the companies were essentially working in collusion with one another to set prices, and the phone call was just our manager’s way of knowing when one of the competitors had enacted the previously agreed upon price changes, a tangible lesson in modern capitalism and the colluding forces that sometimes characterize it.

Because this was the late nineties, digital LED signs indicating fuel prices that stand at the side of the road at the entrance of the forecourt were still years away. Typically, the boards had individual square plastic numbers which could be placed and removed as required to form the price per liter. It was up to the operator to manually change the price board as required. To place these plastic numbers on the board up high and certainly out of reach of being able to slot them in by hand, we would have to affix them onto a suction cup – think of the plush Garfield toys in car windows – which would then be attached to a long metal pole. From there, it was simply a matter of raising the pole up and delicately housing the plastic square into the appropriate position on the board. Sometimes, a little bit of saliva on the suction cup helped make this task easier. If there were no customers around, both sides of the board (so cars coming from both directions could see it) could be changed for a single fuel type (thus only one line on the board) in little over a minute. However, on occasions there might not only be a price change for unleaded petrol (the most common type sold), but also for LPG too, and on the very rare and very annoying occasion, diesel as well. This would require multiple changes utilizing many of the plastic squares, seriously testing my speed, dexterity, and timing!

As the sole worker, once the direction to alter the price had been received (usually by phone, but sometimes from a manager passing through the shop), the challenge would be to try and rush out to the board, carrying the large pole and up to a dozen plastic squares, take the old price numbers down, put the new ones up, and get back into the shop, all to be achieved in between the presence of customers. Once that