No small change

The old-time-y filling station hadn't changed one iota in comparison to the neighborhood in which it was rooted.

The clapboard structure donned the same light grey coat of paint it had worn for decades — a working relic of a bygone standard.

A kid jogged out from the office at the sound of a tire-tripped bell. I noticed his t-shirt, visible through his unzipped coveralls, took a cheeky dig at a former president.

I became annoyed that I'd have to tip this guy. And in my mind he was equally peeved he had to provide service with a smile. Of course, he'd notice the one-word feminist slogan on my Fruit-Of-The-Loom. 

He smiled uneasily at me as I came to a stop near the pump.

I'm the kind of motorist who frequents the more impersonal stations: swiping my card before pumping my own. I rarely need help, but have, on occasion, been grateful for the slightly-annoyed sounding disembodied voice calling out from a crackly speaker to reset the machine.

The fewer words exchanged, the better. You never have to make the awkward assessment of weighing service against an appropriate amount of gratuity.

But this place was legend in the eyes of the locals. There was a personal touch here that went beyond being neighborly.

A single mechanic in a two-bay garage worked on cars while politi-kid pumped fuel and washed windows at the four-pump island in front — small jobs at smaller costs, mostly, for local patrons.

I didn't need gas, but the light on my dashboard reported a tire pressure problem, and this was the nearest place.

"Filler-up" I said awkwardly, realizing somewhere around the hyphen that it was an expression that didn't suit me. I must have pulled it out of a sitcom, as I've never used it before or known anyone who has.

My cloddishness continued as I stammered through an overly-worded question aimed at getting my genuine desire: to have him check and fill

the tires. Which he did at a glacial, albeit, methodical pace.

When it was almost over, the kid dipped his head into the open passenger-side window and leveled the tally:

"That'll be 11 dollars."

I handed him a twenty and told him to keep the change. He thanked me and tapped the car, the official symbol for the transactions' end.

As I turned the key in the ignition and adjusted in my seat, the thought occurred to me: there wasn't a thing I'd rather do with my money at that moment than spend it on another human being. 

It's just a small kindness, not something that's owed.

As much as I would like to think I've matured into understanding the value of small change, I've learned it from watching my kids.

And even though nine bucks wasn't going to put a dent into my kids' education funds, they wouldn't have minded.

My son is always ready with the five-star reviews and new and better ways to gush on comment cards. He also keeps a keen eye out for tip jars. Doesn't matter how small a gesture is made in his direction, he's always willing to round up for the sake of humanity.

Maybe that little bit extra will be able to lift something higher, even if only as little as a mood.