When the price of gasoline hit $4.50 a gallon recently ($6.50 in California) it caused me to reflect on the history of gas prices I have experienced in my rather long life. You’ll see how long.
When I started driving in the mid-1950s, a gallon of gas at the pump was about 25 cents (for regular) and 28 cents for (ethyl). Ethyl was “premium” and not Lucille Ball’s TV friend.
My family had a cabin on a lake near Moose Lake and when I went there, I’d stop at an Erickson station (later Holiday) near the Duluth Ore Docks and order a buck’s worth of regular. That was plenty to get me to the cabin.
Besides the prices of gas, there have been drastic changes in the way gas stations operated. For one thing, they were called “service stations,” because a stop at one could involve more than a buck’s worth of gas.
Also called “filling stations” they were manned by men (all men) who were known as “pump jockeys.” These men wore the uniforms of their brand — Standard, Pure, Mobil, Texaco, Phillips 66, Mileage, Clark, Erickson, Cities Service and others. Many of their uniforms were topped with leathery bow ties, and, of course, special caps, often military style, identifying the brand they represented.
In the process, no driver EVER filled his or her own tank at a service station. Most drivers wouldn’t know how. Drivers would pull into the driveway alongside the row of pumps and a pump jockey would dash out of the building and approach the driver, still seated behind the wheel.
Speaking through the open window, the driver would order the kind and amount of gas (“Gimme a buck’s worth of regular.” or “Fill her up with ethyl.”) and the pump jockey would grab the hose from the proper pump and begin filling the tank. As the process unfolded, the pump jockey would dash to the front of the car and wash the windshield without asking if the driver wanted the service.
When the gas order was complete, and the windshield cleaned, the pump jockey, before collecting the money, would ask if the driver needed any other services. These other services might be open the hood and check the oil, or get down with a tire gauge and check the tires. If a tire or two was low on air, the jockey would grab the air hose and bring them up to where they belonged.
Under those circumstances, then he would show up at the driver’s side window to be paid — maybe $5 for a full tank of gas, no charge for the service. And no tipping — ever.
But occasionally there were limits. I was riding with a friend one time and he was out of cigarettes. Just about everybody smoked in those days, especially teenage boys who weren’t out for sports. It was a chilly, rainy evening shortly after dark and my friend pulled into a station on Central Entrance.
The pump jockey darted from inside his building wearing rain gear and approached the driver’s window, asking for an order. He got one:
“I’ll take a package of Marlboros,” my friend said.
The jockey looked at him scornfully and said, “You Xyz##XXY,” as he turned on his heel and returned to the comfort of his station.
As I said, there were limits.
Jim Heffernan is a former Duluth News Tribune news and opinion writer and continues as a columnist. He can be reached at jimheffernan@jimheffernan.org and maintains a blog at www.jimheffernan.org.
