Not All Small Talk

There’s something a little different this week – a guest post written by Fergus Atkinson-O’Sullivan, from London, England, via Woodbury, Connecticut. I think it’s a very funny story, and if anyone else has a story they’d like to tell here, or have me tell for them, please send me a message and let’s discuss it! Now, over to Fergus …

Photo by Victoria Sherwood

I am a relative newcomer to America, just three years into my immigrant journey. The novelty of being in this new and wonderful country, with its unique peculiarities and perks, hasn’t worn off. I love that the Stars & Stripes are flown uncontroversially from homes, businesses, cars and boats. I’m enjoying the charitable vibes of a small New England town, with the volunteer fire department, food bank, regular blood drives and seasonal get-togethers, from Christmas tree lighting to debating the local school budget. I am also fond of the full service gas station.

Where I’m from, you pump your own “petrol,” pay twice as much for it, and enjoy no pleasantries in the way of conversation, unless you encounter someone particularly charming at the cash register.

So, on one of my early encounters with the full service gas station, I was delighted to be met by a smiling young chap who enthusiastically greeted me, asked me what grade of gas I preferred, and went ahead to top up my car for me.

Now, I don’t normally order extras at our local full service station, but on this occasion, I happened to need a small replenishment of engine coolant, the level of which had dropped a little too close to the reservoir’s “minimum” line for comfort. So, as it was on offer (and having never before had the luxury of someone topping it up for me), I asked the gentleman for a splash of coolant for whatever price he deemed appropriate – nothing fancy, I added, just the house’s choice of fluorescent water/glycol mix. It made a nice change from my life in Blighty, where topping up the coolant myself involved digging around the garage for the gallon container I may or may not still have, and then inevitably spilling a lot of it because I had misplaced the funnel.

“No problem!” he said, as he returned my credit card, and the gasoline started flowing. We proceeded to embark on routine small talk, as you do, and with which I’m now very familiar. More often than not, along with weather-related remarks, I am asked some combination of the following: “So you’re from England?” “What soccer team do you support?” “What do you think of Harry and Meghan?” “Do you like living in the USA?”. All fairly routine. If you’re interested, my answers to the above are, “Yes;” “None, but my family likes Arsenal;” “It’s a shame they left but they seem happy;” and, “Yes, very much so.”

Then, the gentleman asked, “How long have you been driving for?”

This puzzled me. I consider myself a decent driver. I’ve driven all sorts of cars, manual, automatic, left-hand drive and right-hand drive, long wheel-base and short, in a variety of countries, some safer than others. No accidents to my name. My car isn’t scratched, the tires certainly had no chunks missing from the sides. I wondered if this chap thought he’d seen me drive into the forecourt erratically, too fast, or without signaling?

“Well,” I replied, “about 15 years, actually. I’m pretty experienced, and have adjusted to US roads pretty quickly.”

The gentleman laughed at me, then explained: “Today. How long have you been driving for today? I need to know if your engine is hot or cold before I open the coolant tank.”

Well, that made more sense. It’s not all small talk after all.