Heat Miser II

My last blog about the heat was really whiny. Sorry about that, but it was hot. It was Africa hot. Tarzan couldn’t take that kind of hot

There. I used it. That’s one of my favorite movie lines. It’s from “Biloxi Blues.” In the scene, the main character from New York City, who is in the Army at the close of World War II, is introduced to the Mississippi heat for the first time. That sums up my feeling about the heat over Memorial Day.

When I was a professional petrol relocator and fluids analyst in Rehoboth Beach, Del., I had to adjust to the summer heat quickly. OK, I was gas-pumper at the Exxon on the town’s main drag. I worked four, 10-hour days a week, mainly dayside, That meant I had to work on the blacktop during the hottest times of the day and pop hoods and check oil and radiator fluid. That was hot work. Tarzan couldn’t pump gas in that kind of heat.

Well, what amused me most (I have many amusing stories from that summer, but I’ll bore you with those later) was when the politicos from Washington drove up in their big, black cars. They had special D.C. plates, so I knew who they were. The driver would ease his or her window down just enough to slide the Exxon credit card out the window to me. Often, they just flung it through the crack in the window then sealed their tinted, air conditioned heaven on wheels. You ever pry a credit card from melted tar?

I met Jack Kemp’s daughter one hot day. She at least walked the card over to me. However, she was wearing tight, striped pants. She shouldn’t have done that.

Funny thing about working at the Exxon: Almost every person I waited on thought I was an idiot. True, it was hot. It was Africa hot. Tarzan couldn’t discuss Victorian literature in that kind of hot. And I looked rough and, as the Southern folk said, “I tawked funny.” But they all assumed that I hadn’t made it past the third grade, let alone that I had a bachelor’s degree.

I recall only one customer who treated me like I was a human being.

By the way, I must say that the owner of the station, Lou, and the folks I worked with, were decent people and we all treated each other pretty good. I’m only talking customers here.

Anyway, this customer needed gas in the car and I topped off her radiator (I pronounced it radiator, but most called it the radd-ee-a-teer), She had a bicycle in the back of the station wagon. She asked me if I knew any place around that fixed bikes. I explained that I was new to the area and didn’t know of a shop. She smiled and said she could tell I wasn’t from “Slower” Sussex County. Her husband had an external heart monitor on and was in no shape to tinker with the bike.

I told her I knew a bit about bikes and had her back the car over by the garage. I pulled the bike out of the car, filled the tires, tightened a few bolts, used my handy-dandy wrench set with tweak the derailleur, lubed the chain, aligned the center-pull brakes and shined the bell. It took like 10 minutes tops (I was more handy then). I loaded the bicycle back in the car.

The woman thanked me and gave me a $5 tip. I protested but she insisted. She said I was one of the nicest people she’d met while vacationing in the area. I told her she didn’t need to tip me (I did end up taking the tip. I needed beer money) and that she was the nicest person I’d had the pleasure of helping the entire summer. And she was.

Writing of bikes and heat, I’m reminded of one more thing.

For the past several months I’ve been beset with a feeling. Not the “Happy” and “Sad” type of feeling, but more of an image I can see and feel. I’ve been experiencing the sensation I used to have when riding my bike alone on a hot Sunday night through the Village of Hamburg. I can feel the heat radiating off the pavement, see the sun setting over Lake Erie in the distance. I can even see the bland sandstone of the town hall and the sticky tar of the plaza parking lot where Ulbrich’s bookstore and Pleasures & Pastimes craft shop were. The village was pretty much empty, it being Sunday and so dang hot. And I just feel the heat and the alone-ness. Not loneliness, just being alone.

Thought: Africa hot. Tarzan couldn’t pedal in that kind of hot.