What I Did On My Decade-long Vacation, pt. IIa
  Gas Station Attendant: Alhough technically the two summers I worked pumping gas occurred before and during my tenure at Costly Little U., it still left me with a lasting aversion to inhaling petroleum fumes in 90+ degree weather, or walking through a summer thunderstorm to pump two dollars worth of regular. I only thank whatever luck or fate that I have that I never had to make change with bare fingers in January.
  On the plus side, knowing how to work a gas pump came in remarkably handy when I departed for Pennsylvania, a state where full-service gas pumps are rarer and more expensive than a prostitute will a full set of teeth. Nearly all of the other students who had come to CLU from New Jersey (where, in case you don't know, pumping your own gas is actually illegal) were so impressed that they would often take me to the gas station with them just so I could pump. My standard exchange for pumping a tankful of gas was usually fairly slight, nothing more than a soda or a packet of something salty, and a pretty girl could usually avail herself of this blue-collar skill for nothing more than a smile and a kind word.
  While I have some fond, if rather vague, memories of helping people out by filling up their cars, in retrospect I feel as if I cheated myself. While it was a rather simple task to perform, it was still work, and I somehow feel I was short-sighted in not demanding better compensation for my time and effort. At a dollar per trip to the gas station, by the end of my freshman year I could probably have saved up enough money to actually go somewhere for the following Spring Break. *sigh* Sadly, this was not the last opportunity I would squander.