Two Filling Stations on One Exit

(Any comments, direct them to dadofprince@gmail.com. Thanks!)

The Waldo exit on I-43, just south of Sheboygan, is not much different than hundreds of its kind. It features a family-style restaurant between two franchise-owned filling stations. It's what I noticed about the latter that's fascinated me.

One is a Kwik-Trip, one of the most popular stations in this state. Like many of its kind, it has not only plenty of gasoline but lots of food, both presently cooking and refrigeratedly wrapped for those who'd rather not take the time and stop at that restaurant. It also has what are generally known as "groceries," or things one forgot to add to the cooler or the RV or whatever one is packing tight. It also includes things to wear in case one gets the sudden urge to put on something representing (mostly) this state and its environs or just in pride that you belong to it or would like to.

The other is Love's. It has everything the Kwik-Trip does. Anyone who travels the Interstate system--and who doesn't?--shouldn't be surprised by this. Love's is located on the north side of Highway Q, Kwik-Trip on the south. You have to take a slight drive off that county road to actually get to either station. The locations are equivalent in accessibility.

You'd think it's a horse apiece, until you look at the price of the gasoline. At least the last two times I stopped at that exit, a long weekend apart, Love's price was about, and remained, a quarter less per gallon than Kwik-Trip's.

Yup. The last two times. Actually, on the first trip, the difference was 34 cents per gallon. The second visit, it had been pared down to 25.

None of this difference was secret. Both stations have one of those huge towers which electronically display the gasoline price. So anybody paying decent attention would understand the enormous difference by the time they left the freeway and stopped for gas.

But a quarter a gallon? You'd think, with the relative sameness in accessibility, the Love's station would be teeming with traffic and the Kwik-Trip would hear crickets. Not so. You'd think, too, that someone might have tugged at the shirt of some Kwik-Trip attendant and said something like, Been looking across the road lately? in order not to get muscled out of a lot of traffic.

But apparently, nobody did. Or, if they did, the admonition got ignored. Must have, or else a much larger adjustment would have been made.

Here's the thing, though: What about everyone who ignored the price difference? Was it intentional, or mindless?

Like me, for instance. Me. Mindless me, who never looked at Love's price the first time around until I had pulled out of the Kwik-Trip station. Head slap! D'oh!

What was it about my attitude that caused that? I had no other reason to choose Kwik-Trip besides the price of petrol. I screwed myself out of 34 cents per gallon.

So let's say I put in ten gallons or so. I lost at least $3.40--just poured it down the drain. I could have bought another whole gallon next door, driven about 33 miles without replacement. I was a wise consumer--not.

Here's the other thing--I'm quite sure I wasn't alone. I'd like to think I have a reasonable amount of intelligence. I used none of it during that stop.

Or did I? 

Did I use another kind of intelligence--emotional? Did I settle for a comfort zone instead of making a rational, logical price choice? And is that the only time I've ever done that?

Well, no. And, I would guess, plenty of others have done the same thing--acted without thinking about it, acting automatically, as if we're pre-programmed to do so.

We do so with so many things, but particularly with shopping for groceries. If we're used to taking the store brand, we do so without looking at the ingredients or calories we're about to imbibe, information that, not too long ago, wasn't provided. If we take the better-known brand, we do the same. Doing otherwise takes judgment--and time.

If we have a chance to save water or other necessary resources, we rarely do so. We leave the water running while brushing our teeth. We leave the light on in the next room even though we're finished with our business in there. We throw away plastic containers instead of recycling them.

Are we too busy to do that kind of thinking? Or are we overwhelmed with the number of choices we could make every day, but don't? And does that transfer over to the far more important kinds of choices we should be making honestly and with a depth of thought that we never use?

Like: Voting?

Don't most of us vote automatically nowadays? Hasn't the polarization between the two major parties forced us to do so without evaluating their positions, since we already know what they are? Don't we do so mindlessly, almost carelessly, like people like me who don't look at the gas prices?

We are supposed to have the freedom of the secret ballot. But there have been times when that freedom was in name only. More than a century ago, the Democrats of the large cities rounded up immigrant, voting age males by way of ward "heelers," who brought them "to heel" at election time by reminding them how they got their jobs and homes--most likely through a system of controlled bribery. The ballots were of a different color depending on which party's candidate you intended to vote for. That's hardly secret.

And, of course, the racial intimidation of Blacks by white supremacists have suppressed that vote for decades. It's still happening through new election laws in some states that make it more difficult, not less, to stand in line on Election Day, or to vote on any other day but Election Day. Those laws, in a switch of attention, have been passed by Republican state legislative majorities.

Yet, the unfairness doesn't always get outed at the ballot box. People vote for a particular party by rationalizing that, on balance, one is still better than the other even though there's something fundamentally wrong with it, like filling up at the Kwik-Trip with gas prices 25 cents higher. People just say to themselves, I just like this one, dammit. I always have and I always will, regardless of the extra price they have to pay for that choice. They put their heads down and get it done.

Like those of us who actually vote. We are so cavalier with that fundamental right and obligation that we scarcely notice when someone is trying to mess with it. It's that neglect that is coming back to haunt us, because if anyone's vote is tainted, so is the meaning of ours. But we drive right past it, like getting gas at a far more expensive place. Either way, we pay the price for it.

I wonder how many people have come to grips about that lately. January 6 and all that was about erasing the meaning of our votes. So, too, is the possibility of the Wisconsin legislative Republicans impeaching Judge Janet Protosiewicz even before she's had a chance to rule on anything in front of the Wisconsin Supreme Court. It's beyond sour grapes, though it's that, too. It's about cynicism and conniving and undermining. It's about tearing down all guardrails to get one's way.

Everyone should be outraged about that. It's going about the destruction of our very democracy to diminish, if not eliminate, the meaning of our participation because someone doesn't like the results. If Republicans get away with this ridiculous stunt, I wouldn't be surprised if many people just stop voting altogether--which may be a subtle additional motivation behind all this.

But like getting gas, democracy can't exist without its fuel, elections. Take that away, and nobody goes anywhere. That seems to be one side's purpose: To freeze everything in place. But things move regardless. The world moves regardless. They think that now that they have power, they can even keep the planets from moving. They float in a la-la land of unreality, out of which they must be shaken.

We have to remain vigilant to know and act on the value of voting. Otherwise, someone may make us pay a price for it that, someday, may be too dear and, unlike the price of gas at two filling stations, too noticeably unchangeable.

Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.

Mister Mark

Two Plans for Litter

(Any comments, please contact me at dadofprince@gmail.com. Thanks!)

I drove through the mostly barren countryside the other day, trailing a pickup truck. It weaved a little, so I was sure to maintain a wide following distance.

Suddenly, as it swerved again, a plastic water bottle flew from the passenger side window. It went right back behind the truck, right in my path. Of course it did no damage, but I felt it as it clucked on my grille. It was clear that it was meant to be thrown backwards, not out to the side.

The temerity, I thought, was both mystifying and disappointing. The next town was less than 20 minutes away. Couldn't they wait and toss it in some garbage can along a street, or alongside a McDonald's?

It all had the classic feel of a good-old-boy outing, even though it was maybe two in the afternoon. You know, guzzle some hard liquor, get hammered, and tell the world that no hoots were given, especially about the damage to the countryside's look caused by one little plastic bottle. What the hell would it hurt?

But I was offended. I felt like part of the junk that had been discarded. When someone makes it obvious that they don't care about your attitudes and don't share your values, what you want to do as soon as possible is to get yourself away from them. But of course, I couldn't. There was no alternative route to where I was going. I had to keep following them. It felt a little scarring, like I shared in their disdain. The only disdain I felt was for them.

They couldn't care less about my sensitivities about the environment, either. Something like 55 years ago, Lady Bird Johnson had embarked on a national beautification program that committed itself to cleaning up the growing litter along roadways. Obviously, those effects have fizzled away. I've seen the same on the Interstate; wrappers and bottles strewn horribly for a full mile sometimes. There are fines for such behavior, of course, but the enforcement of that can't be high on anyone's priority list. No wonder climate change is bearing down on us. No wonder we'd still rather not think about it.

Suddenly, though, the pickup's driver must have noticed me in his mirror and stuck his arm out his window. He slowed down and waved to let me go past. It was a two-lane road, so he'd seen that no oncoming traffic was present.

So what should I do? Just help myself to unexpected politeness, or scoot by and shake my finger at them in obvious scolding for tossing litter at me? I shuddered momentarily. For all I knew, one of them might have a weapon. Was it worth the trouble for me to act like a teacher, which is what I've been, and remind them of what they'd done?

No. Not worth it. If they had more garbage to jettison, at least I wouldn't be in the way. The next thing to get tossed at whoever trailed them might be a glass bottle. That damage might be enormous and even dangerous.

I accelerated and raced by. I even waved thank you, like I do in traffic jams when I'm either allowed in to a lane where everyone has to go, or squeeze in front of someone who's unconsciously let the parade have a spot open for it. Waving costs nothing and lets someone know that you're grateful. You've never met nor will you ever meet. But it's like being someone's guest, albeit for a few moments. Never hurts to make the person behind you feel valued. 

The boys in the pickup didn't deserve to feel valued, I didn't think, but neither would they feel justified in emptying a round from their shotgun to teach me a lesson. Even if they didn't have one, they could engage in hijinks like tailgating me at 60 miles per hour just to have a little terrifying fun. I had no stomach for that.

Besides, I was out of state, and that might give them an additional excuse to take out their frustrations, whatever they might be, on someone who had decided to be "uppity," as they might call it. I recalled the commercial: "You'd better not drive like that in this part of North Carolina (though it isn't where this happened)," some state patrolman said to someone he'd stopped. If you own where you live, you gain some self-appointed sanctimoniousness which might justify defending one's homeland with excessive attention. I wasn't picking that kind of fight, disgusted though I was. Add the possibility of drinking in that pickup, and well, their judgment, which was already sorely lacking, might for all I knew take a mean turn.

Contrast that with a moment while walking in a park the other day. I do that often not only to stretch my back but keep my heart, rearranged by triple by-pass surgery five years ago, stimulated as much as it can--jogging being impossible because my hip replacement two years ago didn't take as well as it should have. It's a well-kept park, free from litter. The users tend to be responsible and tidy. The surrounding neighborhoods are filled with old and new money, people who wouldn't remotely consider dropping a candy wrapper or tossing a plastic water bottle aside uncaringly. They like a well-kept ship. They get that part of a place's beauty is partly made up of trash that it lacks.

But I had never seen this before: A motorist driving through one of the park's roadways, suddenly stopped as I approached it. A refuse can stood at the juncture of the sidewalk and the road, just inside the curb. The driver, who kept his car running, simply got out and threw something into the can. It looked like a plastic water bottle.

I had to remark. "Great that you're thinking about the environment," I told him. He smiled and drove off.

One of these people were black. One was white. I'll let you figure out which was which.

Be well. Be careful. With some luck, I'll see you down the road.

Mister Mark