It’s true.
I stole gas.
I was 17 or 18 at the time, minding my own business at work in the fish and animal department the above-pictured PetSmart in Superior, CO (the one that almost burned down in the Marshall Fire), when the intercom sounded:
“Rachel, you have a call on line 1, Rachel, line 1.”
I picked up the phone to find my brother on the other line. I’m pretty sure he had never called me at PetSmart before this call or since.
“Hey, did you get gas at Conoco earlier?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Um, did you pay or what?”
“Yeah, why??”
“I’m at mom’s and there’s a message on the machine from a lady at Conoco saying you stole gas from there.”
“What the fuck, seriously??”
Guys, I’m a person who follows rules. Like obsessively. Stealing stuff isn’t an option.
As a very young child, I accidentally stole a children’s book from a Pizza Hut (good ol’ ’90s Pizza Huts–absolute heaven in the shape of a hut). My mom railed me for it and made me take it back and apologize.
I’m pretty sure I apologized to some high school kid who could literally give two fucks if I “stole” a book or not, but at the time, all restaurant employees were adults and were therefore terrifying to me as a shy, easily embarrassed little kid.
At the time, I didn’t really know what stealing was–I truly thought those books were just there for me to have, like the library.
But thanks to a little public humiliation, I moved forward from that experience with a very clear and shameful understanding of stealing and I never wanted to do it again.
So naturally, getting this very serious phone call from my very serious sounding brother (very out of character for him), I was petrified. Petrified doesn’t actually touch the terror I felt.
Here’s another strange stock photo for you. Just pretend this kid is teenage me and the spare change thing is actually a 1987 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme with a full tank of gas.
I’m sure my face went sheet white, much like it did when I was nearly arrested going through security at the airport, but that’s a story for another time. I promise.
(Maybe there needs to be a blog post about the times I’ve almost been arrested. There are a couple.)
Long story short, apparently my credit card didn’t take and I didn’t know it. I filled the tank and took off to go to work, not knowing any different.
The lady working there somehow managed to get my phone number from the credit card company and called my house. Thus the scary message and the scary phone call from my brother.
Here’s a picture of the gas station (now a Phillips 66, not a Conoco) from which I stole a tank of gas and if I remember right, it might’ve been the other side of the pictured pump.
I’m not sure why this particular gas station needs to have a stock photo, but whatever. It’s here for your viewing pleasure…watermarks and all.
This, my friends, is why I cannot get gas to this day (20+ years later) without procuring a receipt. Even if the receipt thingy is broken, I get this aching in my stomach, worried I might be stealing gas again.
My ex-husband took notice of this obsessive practice.
He thought that by telling me gas machines are now wired to run the card before they pump gas–that it’s actually impossible to steal gas–I’d feel better.
I didn’t feel better. I don’t feel better. I’ll never feel better.
I will always get a receipt.
Um duh, I only need one reason to keep my gas receipt. To hold it in my hand as concrete evidence that I didn’t steal anything by accident or otherwise.
And once I’ve held it securely in my two hands, I always immediately throw it away in my car’s trash bag.
What a short, yet incredibly valuable lifespan for a gas receipt.
The Pickle Writer 