Life Is A Gas Station

So my sister-in-law and I were off to help my mother-in-law leave her husband. Since he's not my wife's father, but stepfather, I guess he's my step-father-in-law. And their marriage is ending.

Anyway, because they live 100 miles away, we stopped to get gas. Theresa, my sis-in-law, asks if I would pump the gas while she went over to get some breakfast. Sure. She hands me a gas card, and I stick it in the card reader at the pump, and it asks for a PIN. I look and there is no PIN. Theresa hadn't said anything about a PIN. I look at the card. It's more like a gift card -- definitely not a credit card. I try again. Same result. So, I go to the cashier, hold up the card and say "This doesn't work."

He says, "We're a 76 station."

I say, "Yeah, it keeps asking for a pin."

He repeats: "We're a 76 station. That's a Shell card."

I look at the card and its pleasant sea shell photo. Then I look over the cashier's head at the familiar Union 76 orange ball logo.

"Thanks," I say, and head back to the car, thinking Theresa gave me the wrong card. Then I think, what the heck. I'll just pay for it myself, and head back to the cashier.

"Ten dollars on number seven, please," and the cashier just busts out laughing.

"I know, it's early," he says.

He has no idea.