The Grim Reaper

I pulled into Morrison’s petrol station.

It had been mysteriously closed for a few days just after the petrol prices had dropped a little; I was pleased to see it re-opened with such a long journey up north ahead of us.

There were long queues at all the pumps.

I pulled into one line and waited.

Eventually, one of the cars moved on, and I pulled into the vacant position.
They had changed the pumps and the payment method. Shivering, I tried to make sense of the new procedure and realised that I was about to pick up the diesel pump instead of the unleaded pump. I put it back quickly, then I realised that the unleaded pump that I needed was chained up and out of action.

Miserably, I returned to the car and pulled up a little to be behind the car in front where an equally befuddled lady was struggling to fill her car with fuel.
I noticed The MAN in the rear view mirror. He was in a steel white car and gesticulating wildly. He had a long suffering wife sitting next to him.

I knew his impatience was aimed at me.

I was not surprised when a few moments later this same MAN suddenly looms at my side and starts tapping on my car window.

I wound my window down.

‘Are you going to leave or just stay sitting there?’ he demanded angrily.
Under a normal sky I would have felt cowed by this attack and would have apologised for taking up valuable space on the planet, when there were clearly more worthy mortals such the MAN that needed more room. But I was not under a normal sky. I was a hideous mean gargoyle-like creature under the incandescent white-iron heated sky of shirt rage (see blog below). I saw the MAN visibly wilt as I turned my iron cold eyes hard upon him.

I spoke slowly but it was hard to disguise the volcanic fury that was lying like burning plutonic rock in my throat.

‘I came here to get petrol,’ I said coldly. ‘The unleaded petrol pump is not working.’ I added simply, trying hard not to add a sulphurous hiss. ‘I am waiting for the lady in front of me to finish putting petrol into her car. When she has finished then I will move my car into that space.’

I indicated the woman who in front of me who seemed to be even more befuddled than ever.

The MAN though would not have it.

‘Can’t you pull forward?’ he demanded.

I wondered what spatial dimensions the MAN could see that were invisible to me. There was no space for me to pull forwards into and even had I been able to so then he still would not have been able to reach the diesel pump.

‘When the lady in front of me leaves, then I will be able to pull forward.’ I said biting hard on the metallic nails I wanted to spit.

It was at that point that he looked into the car. The shirt hanging up above the back seat had hidden The Teenager. The MAN saw The Teenager for the first time. I think the MAN had thought that he was dealing with just a lone woman and this had given him his false courage.

I saw him take a step back on realising that there was a Teenager in the car; and then another step as he glanced at the back seat.

He left without another word and half a minute later I was able to pull forward into the vacant space once the woman ahead of me left; and he was able to reach the pump too.

The instructions were incomprehensible and the screen didn’t change. There were supposed to be buttons to press, but I hadn’t a clue as to where there were. I puzzled over it fuming. Eventually, I was able to get petrol to work and went inside the kiosk to pay.

‘I couldn’t get it to work properly,’ I said.

‘There was a fault here,’ they explained cheerily. ‘It will work next time you use it.’ A pretty girl with a Morrison’s sash explained. She looked like a beauty queen and smiled warmly at me.

‘And why is the hose still so short? It barely reaches the petrol tank,’ I complained. ‘It seems ridiculous that the pumps have been redesigned and the hose is still so short.’

Normally, I wouldn’t complain and just accept design flaws such as the ridiculously short hoses on petrol pumps as an example of endearing British quirkiness, but fired up with Shirt Rage and now anger at the Man’s recent impatience I’d moved into a whole new realm of intolerance myself.

The beauty queen, no doubt employed by Morrison’s to help with customer relations and to keep fraught tempers calm as frustrated customers struggled in their attempt to understand the new system, smiled warmly at me again.

I felt my gargoylian features set into harder uglier lines as I returned heavily back to the car.

The Man had gone. I guessed he’d been too impatient to work out how to use the new pumps. Or perhaps it had been fear.

I looked on the back seat and saw what had caused him to take his last final step away from my car.

Looking realistic in the garish light of the petrol station was a scythe.

Its blade looked keen and mean.

It was part of a Halloween costume.

The teenager was going to dress up as the Grim Reaper and we were going to show the costume to his grandparents.

I realised now why The Man had backed away. Who would dare risk arguing further with a gargoylic woman, with a teenager sitting by her side, and scythe ready and waiting on the back seat?

Smiling and empowered, I swung the car onto the dark road for the long journey north.