endless myopic optimism xenophobia mocked

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Swantosez                                                                                6-7/08

  

                                                 Getting’ It Wholesale

 

 “Live Free or Die!” “Remember The Alamo!” States have mottos. Certain circles in New York City have a motto too. In mine, it was “I Can Get It Wholesale.”

  Want this year’s styles for less? See the “back” man in one of the showrooms on Seventh Avenue. It’s the same everywhere. Is the price of olive oil getting out of sight? How about a trip to Tuscany? Can’t live without Lobster? Try Maine. Love fresh sweet grapefruit in the morning? Hello sunshine state. You always go to the source. 

As our humiliating dependence on oil unfolded, I could be found on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn, NY, the only street zoned for gas stations. When I hear today’s talk about the price of oil, my memory always returns to that place where I spent a lot of time waiting in the long gas lines during the first “oil crisis”.

 

 It was there that I whiled away the hours waiting to get gas for my delivery vans during the odd-day, even-day system of rationing. It was there that I learned that my drivers and delivery boys had to be paid their hours just to get a half tank of gas. And guess what, it was there, not in some think tank or blog, where I learned America had an oil dependency, a monkey on our back that was a threat to our national security.

 

 Because national security was at risk, I naturally assumed our leaders would swiftly mobilize to deal with the problem. After all, when it came to national security, no effort or expense had ever been spared.

 

 The people that say patience is a virtue must own oil because it’s been forty-five years since the “oil weapon” was first used against us, two generations of Americans have come and gone, I’ve gotten old, gray and fat, and I’m still waiting for our nation to answer the bell.

 

 Certainly, the rhetoric has intensified. Even politicians long associated with big oil, who have previously argued that we can “drill our way out” of this problem, are beginning to bang the drum.

 

 The Heritage Foundation now says our oil dependency poses a “dire political threat.”

In 2006, Senator Jeff Sessions, noting that we now import sixty percent of our oil, warned we import half of that from nations that “are, or soon may be, hostile to U.S. interests.” Even the President, once an oilman himself, said in his 2007 State of The Union address: “for too long, our nation has been dependent on oil. America’s dependency leaves us more vulnerable to hostile regimes and to terrorists, who could cause huge disruptions of oil shipments…….and do great harm to our economy.”

 

 That’s strong language, but where have I heard it before? Wasn’t that what Mr. Carter was saying when I was sitting in those gas lines on Atlantic Avenue, reading the paper?

 

 David Sandalow, of the Brookings Institution, has recently remarked “seldom in American politics has consensus provided such little action.” In other words, although everyone knows the score, our government can’t get the bat off its shoulder.

 

 Obviously, we can’t rely on the government to solve the “oil crisis.”  The time for talking is over. It’s everyman for himself.

 

 I’ve decided it’s time to do the New York thing and get it wholesale. Take the bull by the horns! On to Texas!

 

 You don’t think the average mook in Saudi Arabia is paying four dollars a gallon do you? Senor Chavez may be un poco loco, but you can bet your last peso that the average voter in Caracas isn’t paying four bucks either. In Iraq, where the national pastime is blowing to pieces the wrong brand of Muslim, even they are too civilized to overcharge one another on gas.

 

 Why should Texas be any different? Texas is America’s energy state. They have three hundred and seventy five thousand oil, gas and injection wells. This March, they pumped over twenty seven million barrels of oil. Last year, total production, not including offshore, was over three hundred thirty nine million barrels. If Venezuelans, Saudis, and Iraqis don’t rip each other off, it stands to reason those good ol’ boys in the Lone Star State are taking care of each other too.

 

 There is nothing like the promise of a discount to motivate the American consumer. The most dangerous job in America is opening the door at Wal-Mart on Black Friday. My rush to get gas wholesale motored me from New York on Sunday night to just west of San Antonio in time for lunch on Tuesday.

 

 But on US 90 in Hondo the sign said $ 3.77 a gallon.

 

 What’s this? That’s only one thin dime less than Arkansas! It sounded suspiciously retail to me.

 

 Calm down. Wait a second. Were on a highway; those must be the prices for the suckers passing through.

 

 There is a pretty young girl in the cashier’s booth, what they call “a smiling face.”

I wait until she isn’t busy and approach with a great show of casual confidence.

 

 “Yes sir, how can I help you today?” she asks sweetly. After looking around to make sure it was safe for her to talk I say “ Howdy, how ya’ll doin’ today?” We exchange pleasantries and then I lean in and in a voice barely above a whisper ask “Listen honey, where do the real Texans buy their gas?”

 

 “Thank you for shopping at H.E.B. sir. We have the best prices in Texas.”

 

 I persist. “I just got here, I may not look like it, but I’m going to be a real Texan. I’m going to buy the hat. You can tell me. Where do the smart people get the insider Texas price?” She is beginning to look at me as if I were a deranged lunatic from New York City. It was probably just bug spray in her hand but I decided to beat my retreat anyway just in case it was mace.

 

 She was just a kid. What do kids know anyway?

 

 In the next few days, I burn my tank full of 3.77 scouring the back streets of Hondo and the county roads of Medina looking for the secret gas pumps where Texans sell each other gas wholesale. Up in the hills in one of those cedar covered draws would be a perfect place for a secret fuel depot. Despite aunt Icky’s opera glasses, I can’t find a thing. The pickups zoom by, sometimes a SUV and even what looked to be a tree hugger in an economy car, but I can’t pick up the trail. I find the highest hill and search the horizon for dust. Surely, all those folks filling up would throw up a lot of dust. But, there is nothing.

 

 Alright, nobody said this would be easy.

 

 Why didn’t I think of this sooner? They probably fill up at night so the rubes won’t catch on! Still posted on my hill, I vigilantly stare into the darkness looking for that convergence of lights that will lead me to the secret pumps. If you sell it wholesale, they will come.

 

 I do not find them. But something finds me.

 

 Is that a pig or a three hundred pound rat? Do rats have tusks?

 

 Bright and early on Thursday morning, I’m the first person in line when the white haired ladies from the Garden Club open up the Hondo thrift shop.

 

“Good morning! How can we help you today sir?”

 

 “I need a cowboy hat. I need a real Texas cowboy hat” I blurt out.

 

 What a beauty! It’s kind of silver gray and made of some kind of velvety suede and absolutely genuine Texas cowboy for just seven bucks.

 

 That’s what I’m wearing when I hit the taqueria for breakfast. Sure, the hat may be a little dressy with my Met’s T-Shirt, denim shorts and tasseled yellow loafers, but I figure it will show these boys I’m one of them.

 

 The tejanos, in the corner booth, dribbling Tabasco on their chorizo and egg tacos listen very quietly as I explain the situation to them in great detail. “Sure,” they say politely, “we can’t lie to someone wearing a hat like that. You just wait here,” they assure, “and we’ll get you a guide to the secret fuel dump.”

 

 I’m not sure what guides wear in Central Park, but when this one showed up they had him dressed up just like a State Trooper.

 

 All the folks down at city hall were warm and friendly. They didn’t even lock me up; just left me on a bench with my fancy second-hand hat. The clerks took turns coming over to look at me. We all drank a lot of coffee and they made a lot of phone calls. I couldn’t hear very well but they must have been talking to the local hospital or some doctor. Something about being out in the sun too long. Apparently, it’s not so unusual in these parts.

 

 After they were sure I didn’t believe in the hometown discount anymore, they let me go.

 

 I’ve learned my lesson. I left my hat on the back step of the Garden Club thrift shop and headed straight out of town without looking left or right for wholesale Texas gas. You know, when you think about it, that was a pretty stupid idea.

 

 I’ve decided to move on. I’m going to Oklahoma. They have oil there too.

 

 Maybe the Indians will give me a break.

 

 If I can only find those beads………..

Authors Bio:
shopkeeper 1976-2001