BEAVERTON, OR (1977) “Holman’s Shell Station”

I loved my customers. Even the messy ones, whose futures seemed precarious.

“X-100”

I was 16 when my dad came home one day and asked if I would be interested in a part time job at Holman’s Shell Station up the street.   

I was pretty surprised by this.  I didn’t know Art Holman, the guy who ran it. I had recently bought a small pickup truck, so I was now stopping regularly there to buy gas.  He and my dad must have talked.

At first, I didn’t know if I wanted a job at a gas station.  I had no conception of what that would be like.  Also, I hadn’t noticed anybody as young as I was working there.

*

It sounded scary.  That was probably my first reaction.  Holman’s Shell was a full-service auto garage.  They didn’t just sell gas, they changed your oil, fixed flat tires, repaired or replaced engine parts.  They had two hydraulic lifts, that could lift cars up over your head.  

Holman’s Shell was a more serious operation than gas stations today.  There were, at times, five or six grown men working there. And I do mean working.  Fixing cars was not just hooking them up to a computer.  You had to crawl around under the hood.  You had to take stuff apart to find the problem. 

Not only were these guys grown men, they wore SHELL STATION uniforms.  These were brown coats with the yellow SHELL emblem above one breast pocket, with their names written in cursive above the other, and matching brown polyester pants.

*

*

My dad told me there was no rush.  I could think about it.  But I didn’t really know how to think about it.  This would be my first job. Was I old enough to have such a job? How did you know if you were ready?

That night, I lay in my bed and tried to imagine myself in a Shell Station uniform, greeting customers, washing their windshields.