THAT'S MY CAR!!

‘Good afternoon!’ she smiled happily.  ‘What number love?’

‘Eleven.’ I smile.  Seems like a nice chick.

She looks at me, blinks a couple of times as the smile drops from her face, and turns to look out at the fuel pumps. 

What the fuck? I wonder.

‘That’s not your car.’ She says firmly. At this moment, I mentally call her Big Bertha.

Shit! Did I get the wrong pump number! I panic, turning to look at the pumps myself.  Nope.  There’s my car; parked beside pump number eleven.

‘No… that’s the right pump.  Number eleven.  Sixty dollars and ten cents, or something like that.’

‘No.’ Big Bertha shakes her head.  ‘That ain’t your car.’

What the fuck is this woman on about?  ‘That is my car…’ I insist, brows furrowing.  Hurry the fuck up.  I haven’t got time for this shit.

‘No… that ain’t your car.’

‘Well who’s is it then, love?’ patience gone, hand on hip; shits cracked.  I hear a couple of people in the queue behind me murmuring.  Possibly as annoyed as I now am.

‘You didn’t drive in in that car…’

‘Really?  Well fuck me!  If that car’s not mine, which one is?’

‘Um….’ She looks out at the concourse, scanning the vehicles.  ‘I don’t know…’

‘Well, this may give you a clue…’ I raise my car keys so she can see the black clicker thing, press the unlock button, and the lights on my car flash.  ‘Holy shit!  It would appear that I’ve just unlocked the car!’ I cry.  ‘What a minute….’ I click it again, and the car flashes.  ‘Well, guess I’ve just locked it now! Amazing, considering that’s not my car.’

She just looks blankly at me, and back out to my car again.

‘For Christ’s sake, can I pay for it now?’ I ask, holding out my card and cursing not having cash so I could throw it at her.

She starts waving a finger toward my car.  ‘No… I’ve seen someone else in that car.  They come in here regularly… that’s not your car…’

‘Of for fucks sake!’ a man says from behind me, causing me to jump.  I turn to look and see this big burly dude covered in tattoos and wearing a Monster beanie.  Don’t think I’ll argue with him.  ‘Who gives a fuck whose it is?  She’s put fuel in it, and she’s prepared to pay for it.  Get a fucken move on!’

‘There’s no need to swear.’ Big Bertha barks at us all.

‘Well hurry up then!’ he says crankily.

What the fuck do I say to that?  I hold out my eftpos card again.  ‘I need a tax receipt love.  Let’s get a move on.’

‘But… that’s not your car…’ she’s STILL going.

‘Oh for fucks sake!  I do not understand what the hell the problem is here!  Whose car do you think it is?  Do you think I’ve stolen it?  Clearly I have the keys!  Do you want my fucken licence details?  Do you want to ring Vic Roads, and see if that registration, which is *I rattle off the rego* is linked to my licence?  Do you want to call the coppers?  Whatever you want to do, hurry the fuck up! I simply do not have time for this!’ I bark at Big Bertha. 

At this point, another woman appears from the back room or office or whatever the fuck, a completely puzzled look on her face, and asks what the problem is.  She glances at my face of thunder, and the long queue forming behind me.

‘She won’t let me pay for my fuel!’ I bark.

‘For some stupid reason, she thinks that the car out there doesn’t belong to this woman, and she won’t let her pay!’ the man from earlier pipes up.  ‘For God’s sake, let’s get a move on!’

‘What don’t you think it’s her car?’ the second woman turns to Big Bertha.

‘I didn’t see her drive in in it…’ she replies weakly.

‘I did.’ Another voice from behind me (because EVERYONE is now behind me) says quietly.  We all turn to see this tiny slip of a thing standing behind the tattooed bloke.  ‘I saw her drive in..’  Of course. She was on the bowser beside me filling up as I pulled in.  How come I got in here before she did… I briefly wonder…

The second woman turns back to Big Bertha.  ‘Do you want to call the police?’

‘OH FOR FUCKS SAKE!’ I yell, and the two ladies behind the counter jump in surprise.  ‘WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?’ I wave my card at them.  ‘I DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR THIS, NOR DO THE GOOD PEOPLE BEHIND ME!  GET A FRIGGIN MOVE ON!’

Big Bertha blinks a couple of times, punches a few numbers into the terminal, and points at the eftpos machine. ‘Please insert your card…’ she instructs quietly, and her buddy starts serving the person behind me from the next window.

What the hell….

I watch the eftpos machine, punch in my numbers, and the second it says ‘approved’, I rip my card from the machine, and storm from the shop without a backward glance.  Fucken morons.  What the hell was that all about? I wonder as I stride across the concourse to my car.

I raise my arm, showing Big Bertha my keys, and click the button to unlock it.  I climb in, start her up, and I’m off.  I would screech out of there, tyres smoking and stuff, but knowing my luck, I’d lose control of my car, slam into a bowser, cause it to explode, which in turn, causes a chain reaction that incinerates everything within a one kilometre radius of the servo.  Not cool.

The big bloke with the tattoos is walking out of the shop as I drive past, and gives me a conspiratory nod.  I’m sure he’s none the fucken wiser than I am.

I’m at a complete loss to explain the reasoning behind Big Bertha’s behaviour.

What a fucken ass hat.

Peace out.