After 13,000 miles, my new 1977 VW Rabbit collapsed. The engine dismantled, parts were ordered from Germany and it spent three months in the shop. When my father and I redeemed it from the mechanic, I was told to always buy good gasoline and to put an additive like STP in the tank every once in a while.

From then on, I was very careful what kind of gas I put in Harvey. (It was a big, white Rabbit who went everywhere with me, although Elwood P. Dowd was better served.) If Harvey wasn’t fed good fuel, he would gasp, cough, sputter and sometimes just refuse to go. If fed the right stuff, he purred and hopped. To be safe, I put a bottle of STP in the tank every time I purchased gas from an unknown
vendor.

A small Texaco station stood at the corner of Boyd and Classen in Norman when I started attending graduate school in the late ‘70s. Built in the ‘20s or ‘30s, it had a faux Spanish design. Only about two or three cars could be serviced there at any one time without others backing up in the drive. I took Harvey there my first week of classes for a fill up.

The service station attendant worked alone. He wore a uniform that looked as if it had started the day clean and pressed but now was smudged with work. He checked under the hood, cleaned the windshield and topped off the tank. When I got ready to pay, I asked if he had any STP or anything that would keep the engine clean. He looked at me as if I had insulted his mother.

“Come here,” he said and led me to the gas pump where he brushed the dust off of a little white sticker. “The Corporation Commission came by last week and tested the gas.” He pointed to some numbers. “This is the highest rating they give. I sell good gasoline. You don’t need STP or any stuff like that when you buy here.”

The service station attendant was Mr. Pence, the owner. When I drove Harvey away from there, he purred and hopped. Mr. Pence was right. The car didn’t need STP or anything else when I went there. It became a habit. It was the only place I’d fill up Harvey.

Mr. Pence’s Texaco Station wasn’t flashy or new but always tidy and clean. There were no other employees, just Mr. Pence. He always checked under the hood, showed me the oil mark on the dipstick, cleaned the windows and topped off the tank. Each day started for him with a clean, pressed uniform. The advertising executive who came up with the jingle “You Can Trust Your Car to the Man Who Wears the Star” must have been inspired by a visit to Mr. Pence’s Texaco Station.

When I’d take Harvey for a fill up, Mr. Pence and I would talk about the weather, the headlines, the fortunes of the Sooner football team. He would ask about my classes, about school. He showed the same courtesy and respect to this long-haired temporary college student as he would have the local banker or priest.

One day, I pulled into the station and a little white sign was taped to the door: Closed Temporarily. Several weeks passed and the station had not reopened. I went to the liquor store next door and asked if they knew what was going on.

“Not sure,” the clerk said. “I heard he went into the hospital for some tests, thinking it’d be just a few days. Think they found cancer.”

Mr. Pence’s Texaco Station never opened again.

A new convenience store now stands on that corner. I’ve never been in it, but I’m sure the folks there are friendly. To those folks, though, I’d be just another middle-aged businessman pumping gas and signing a credit card receipt.

Today I have my own law practice. Each morning I get up and put on a clean pressed white shirt, a tie and a suit. My uniform. I know every client by name and disposition. I try to show the poorest the same respect and courtesy I do the richest. I am my only employee. Sometimes it’s pretty quiet.

My office isn’t in a new building and doesn’t have a prestigious address. It’s a small place and never quite as tidy as I would like. There’s no sticker on the front door certifying the quality of what I do, but I am not ashamed to tell you:

I sell good gasoline.