Jersey Girls Don’t Pump Gas
II learned how to pump gas
with my cousin Andrea
just over the North Carolina border
at the One-9.
Irritated by the lack of prompt service,
we idled in the fuel lane
“Where’s the fuckin guy at?”
We honked and cursed
and
rolled our eyes,
shook our heads,
smacked our gum ,
and
threw our arms up
at the nerve of this guy,
the audacity!
until ten minutes later,
we noticed people were
getting out of their cars to
pump it themselves
and
a very, harsh reality kicked in:
we weren’t
in Jersey anymore.