I don’t even know how it happened. For decades we Oregon voters have successfully fought off self-service gas stations every time the issue came up for a vote, and all of a sudden, now we have self-service gas. The legislature finally realized the people weren’t going to vote for it so they rammed it through by themselves, picking this one issue to discover bipartisan accord. And the thing was done.

Those ballot measures were getting closer and closer all the time, and it was always just a matter of reaching a tipping point of immigrants from other states to seal the deal anyway. “I’ve been stinking up my clothes and hunching over in the pouring rain my whole life for the freedom to exercise my unpaid labor,” they growled, “and I’m not about to stop now.” Besides, proponents insisted, there will be a requirement for gas stations to have at least one employee personning the pumps. Everybody wins.

The first time post-ramming I needed gas, I drove in to my usual station with a scowl all lined up. But there was someone there, and he did pump my gas, with a smile, too, although now it occurred to me for the first time that maybe I was expected to tip him. The second time I went in, I pulled up and blinked amiably and waited for my guy.

No guy.

He might have been there, somewhere, as required, but he wasn’t there-enough to materialize at my window. I gave it several minutes and then gave in.

Problem is, I have tried to pump my own gas maybe ten times in my life, all told, and it has never gone smoothly. Never ever. The routine is different every time, just like card readers at the store, so that each effort is a tiny IQ test, and my stellar SAT scores don’t seem to factor in at all. Every time it’s a new tableau of me looking like an idiot in front of the pump and then meekly looking around for help, like a pup who’s lost her owner at the park.

I studied the instructions from my seat. They were visibly new and shiny, and there were eight steps, and I studied them until I thought I could do this thing without anyone noticing anything untoward. Then I got out and stuck in my credit card. Everything went smoothly until step eight. That’s where the actual gas is supposed to come out.

I put the nozzle in and squeezed the handle. Nothing. Oh: I needed to stick it in farther. Then the gas came out. I let go of the handle because it’s supposed to go on its own, but it quit immediately. I squeezed again, let go again, it quit again.

Well, maybe, I thought, what I needed to do was to slide the nozzle deep into my tank-hole and pull it out again and back in and back out and back in, until a burst of fossil fuel fountained out, but by then there were too many witnesses.

Finally I just kept it squoze, and a bunch of gas whooshed into the tank, but I didn’t know if the automatic shut-off thing would happen while my hand was on the trigger, and I suddenly visualized a torrent of stinky gas blurping out of my tank and onto the ground—which would clean up the bird shit on that portion of my car, but that was the only selling point—and I panicked and quit. I had 3/4 of a tank and was good to go for another few months, but I would like to register my complaint.

It’s going to start raining, hard and constantly, in another month, and I hope every newcomer to the state and all those legislators have a moment to think about what they’ve done. This whole state is a big wet spot.