The Gas Man on the Jersey Turnpike

The more I thought about it, the more I realized how ridiculous it was to turn right back around after my interview and drive home. I was only 4 hours from New York, so I made a couple of phone calls, climbed back into the car and was off to Gotham for the first time since I had left it nearly three months earlier.

The New Jersey Turnpike has gained a pretty foul and somewhat unwarranted reputation over the years. Sure, it is not the most picturesque road in America (many images of it are featured in a book about the world’s most boring postcards) but it does have a certain charm to it.
Though the drive from D.C. to NYC takes you through four states, the end stretch, which runs the entire length of the New Jersey Turnpike, feels like it takes 10 hours. I think it is the anticipation of being in New York City so soon that instills this feeling. It certainly isn’t because the highway, which plays host to many drivers cruising at 85 mph +, has a reputation for strict speed limit enforcement.

My car is pretty darn fuel efficient, it’s one of the reasons that I bought it. And though it could easily make it from D.C. to NYC on one tank of gas, I opted to get gas near the city so that I could get on the road quickly and easily a couple of days later. New Jersey has a long-standing law that all gas stations are full service, you can actually be ticketed for pumping your own gas. As I pulled up to the pump, an older gentleman greeted me. He asked me what kind of gas I desired and with no irony, I was actually given the opportunity to say “fill’er up.” I then climbed out of the car to stretch my legs and wash the back windshield.

I should have known that this would lead to some discussion because the whole world has something to say and I apparently seem like the girl to say it to. He noticed my Illinois license plates and began chatting about it being a long drive. Somehow this conversation turned into this man offering (I think in jest, but it was hard to tell) to trade his maroon, luxury conversion van for my compact four door sedan. I humored the guy and asked him what kind of gas mileage his van got. He told me about 16 miles/gallon to which I said, “I can’t afford to pay that much for gas.”

This exchange apparently meant that we were friends and he asked me if I had left a husband behind in Illinois. I still haven’t figured out why everyone thinks I have a husband. I’ve looked approximately 19 years old since I was 13. This guy was honestly 65 years old and within three minutes of meeting me he was asking me about my personal life. As I’ve mentioned before, though I hardly ever have an actual boyfriend, when asked by a stranger about my husband/ boyfriend/girlfriend/Malaysian slave boy, I do indeed have one about who I can gush on cue and describe in exhaustive detail. Thank God for an overactive imagination.

My tank was filled, my windshield was washed, my legs were stretched and after paying for the gas, I bid adieu to my new acquaintance and drove away.

As I zoomed down the final stretch of the Turnpike and paid the $6 toll to cross the George Washington Bridge (in true NYC fashion, they only charge you to enter, but they are so happy when you leave that it costs nothing to travel back to Jersey over the bridge) my overactive imagination went to work again. The NJ gas man had probably been doing his job for many years and I wondered if he was happy doing it, how many kids he had, if he had been able to provide for them, if some of them were gas men and women too.

The late winter, mid afternoon sun blared like a car horn as I crossed the bridge and the Manhattan skyline came into view. The scene aroused feelings of happiness and nostalgia. But, for some reason, I kept thinking about the NJ gas man.

The Interview

I had lunch with my friend Amanda before I headed down to the office of the non-profit organization that I was interviewing at. She had a look of semi-shock when I met her near the Metro station dressed to the nines in a black suit and red shirt. My hair was even brushed.
After lunch and a shoe change in the U.S. Postal Museum which was located across the street from the office I was interviewing at, I entered the 2 employee (and one intern) office of the organization. I was interviewed by three men: the associate director, the executive director and the founder/president.

I don’t recollect everything that I said during the 45 minute question and answer session, but I immediately knew, upon meeting the president, that I didn’t like him. He was a certain type of man, a type of man that past experience had proved I didn’t like. I had friends who had fathers like him, the neurotic, obnoxious, bright Jewish man who has no sense of tact or appropriateness. Throughout the meeting, he phrased questions in such a way to garner critical, sometimes combative answers. Or maybe that was just my personality shining through.

The position I interviewed for was for an associate director of membership and events. Mr. President asked me about my ability to and experience in organizing and running events. After giving a response about being flexible and sensitive to people who are used to being coddled (a lesson that this individual had obviously never learned) he followed up with another question. He looked at me and said, “well I’m sure you do quite well with the VIP individuals, but what about the guy who is in charge of the sound system who doesn’t want to be there and isn’t doing his job.”

I don’t think I thought before I responded, but from my mouth tumbled the response, “I think your first problem would be going into a situation with the assumption that a person isn’t there to do his or her job. If you assume the worst in a person, if you don’t respect their abilities, of course they won’t do their job. I surely wouldn’t.”

I looked up at the President and recognized disdain in his face. I looked at the other two men and after a moment, a giant grin spread across the executive director’s face. Someone was in my corner.