June 21, 2004
Burning Bell Hoses
I had a sudden flashback to my days of juvenile delinquency tonight as I pulled into the drive-thru of my local wine and spirits merchant on the way home and the bell hose did the bing! bing! (who did invent the drive-thru liquor store? Brilliant! While not perhaps rising to the level of a Nobel [hint: cash the check, pass on the speech] it certainly deserves a Presidential Medal of Freedom, I would think).
Consider: one does not have to lumber out of the car, trip and fall most inelegantly on the curb, dust oneself off, and then, square-shouldered, pompously sway into the store and demand Qzucxtifukl Lite, in the bottle, dammit, then peel off salaciously soiled dollar bills from one's pocket. Thirteen fifty two? No probrem. One, two. Heh, heh. Three, two. Wait. One, two. Three, four. Five, heh heh. One, two. Wait!
No, 'tis better to roll up to the drive-thru, and smile benificently to the man with smiley glassy eyes focused on the Old Crow clock 12 feet behind him. "Qzucxtifukl", you can say with both hands on the steering wheel. "Borrles". Then give the poor soul a debit card. He will bring out a keypad on an expandable cord, and you can type in "Four, one, six, heh heh. Wait. Four, two, one... "Dude. Whas my anniversary?"
I'm sorry. I digress. Bell hoses. YES. When I was sixteen it was considered de rigeur to burn off the bell hose when you left the gas station. By which I mean peel out, lay rubber, shred that rubber cord on your way to Oblivion. It was just what you did.
Funny? I guess not. Remember: this was not today's world of convenience stores, where Gupta will merely call his brother Sijay and request another hose. This was the days of Full Service gasoline, and The Man wore his uniform and his Texaco Star proudly. Those men would kill your ass over a bell hose, because it might come out of their pocket.
Listen, children: way back then a service station attendant could own a seventeen hundred square foot house and two cars. That was a fucking career. Butchers sent their kids to private schools. You did not tread lightly on The Man's bell hose. But a '73 Celica, given a judicious mixture of clutch, gas pedal, and emergency brake, could chew that hose to hell, and bring the Esso Man charging after you with a monkey wrench the size of a sledge hammer.
Why did we do it? Dumb question. The better question: how did we ever manage to do anything right?