1
MICHELLE: THE PRINCESS BRIDE
Late 1980s
Mark my words.
The next time I stole a car, it wouldn’t be my mother’s. The woman could not be bothered to peel her own fruit, much less fill her tank with fuel.There’s staff for that, she’d always say. Yet here I was five miles to empty.
So much for my dramatic getaway, skidding out of the driveway all full of aggrieved conviction only to discover a few miles into my deliverance that I didn’t have enough in the tank to clear the city limits. I’d been defeated by my mother’s entitled indifference. I might as well turn around. Go home. Face my fate. But I didn’t even have enough gas for that.
Puttering into a station, I parked mother’s Mercedes-Benz convertible in front of a gas pump and waited for an attendant.
A minute passed, maybe two. I turned down the radio and tooted the horn. Nothing.
“Hello?”
Removing my sunglasses, I scanned the perimeter. Not asingle attendant in sight. Wow. The service here was atrocious. A moment before I laid on the horn, a young man exited the station.Finally!
As he approached, I took in his unkempt, layered brown hair, his ripped 501 Levi’s, and his black Iron Maiden t-shirt. My lips pursed. Did gas stations not have a dress code for their workers these days?
The guy kept his head down, not bothering to look my way.
“Hello?” I called again when it became clear he was not coming to my service.
No acknowledgement whatsoever. He kept on walking.
I sighed, impatience building. “Sir. Sir! Hello?”
It was then that he looked up and made eye contact. I pointed to my car. He stopped, casting a glance over his shoulder, then back at me like he was surprised I was even asking. My lord. This place was scraping the bottom of the barrel for its employees.
“That’s right.” I gave an edgy nod. “Over here. Can you please fill my tank? I’ve been waiting.”
“Oh, no. My sincerest apologies,” he said, somehow without sounding sorry. “We certainly can’t have that.”
Was he mocking me? This guy needed some serious gas-pump customer service training, if there was such a thing.
I tapped my steering wheel. “Sir, if you could…”
“Fill your tank.” He cut me off. “Yes, I heard you.”
In no hurry, he strolled over, a smugness to his gait. It was hard not to notice the artwork on his heavy metal t-shirt—that of a devil wagging its tongue. Charming. I smiled sweetly, but only because I’d spent the majority of my life in etiquette classes and knew how to fake the pleasantries.
Once at my driver’s side door, the attendant crossed an arm over his middle and bowed. “As you wish.”
My mouth dropped. Could he be any more condescending?The jerk acted like this wasn’t his damn job. I leveled my gaze, wanting nothing more than to aggressively swing my car door into his nut sack, but again falling back on my impeccable manners.
“Fantastic. Thank you.”
“No problem. Oh, and miss, would you like me to check your oil level and tire pressure while I’m at it?”
“Please. And if you could wash the windshield too, that would be ideal.”
“Ideal. Yes.” He nodded and gave a short laugh. “I’m sure it would be.”
I didn’t like his tone. Not one bit. “Sir, I’m a paying customer, so if you could just lay off the cocky Bon Jovi attitude until I leave, I’d sure appreciate it.”
The attendant recoiled like I’d slapped him in the face.
