Recapturing the Era of Cheap Gas, Stations at Every Corner & Service with a Smile

Recapturing the Era of Cheap Gas, Stations at Every Corner & Service with a Smile
50s era scenes of former Laguna service stations.
HEDDEN FOR GOD'S COUNTRY

BY ANDY HEDDEN
PHOTOS COURTESY OF AMOS STRICKER

There was a time in the 60's and 70's when gas stations in Laguna were as thick as bugs on a Buick crossing the Mojave. There were four filling stations on the corner of Broadway and Coast Highway alone. The most notable was Atlantic Richfield. Long before my time, in the mid 1930's, its distinctly designed tower was transported via horse-drawn flatbed to become arguably Laguna's most recognizable icon, the old lifeguard tower on Main Beach.

Two short blocks down Broadway was a Shell station that revs up a couple of strong memories for me. Its internally illuminated block letters spelled out SHELL on the canopy above the pumps. Occasionally the "S" would burn out. Getting gas there would mean driving straight into HELL.

My most vivid Shell memory comes from the summer of 1967. I'd been peddling my Stingray along Main Beach and pulled in to wash the sand off my wheels. As I was diligently de-beaching my bike, the owner stomped up to me. "Hey kid, you're getting sand all over my lot. Who's going to clean that up?" He wasn't very tall but had huge presence. Tan and built like a bandy rooster, he had an anchor tattooed on his forearm and a squinty left eye. The whole package gave him a Popeye-like quality. I instantly apologized. "I'm sorry, sir. If you get me a hose, I'll clean it up." He smiled wryly. "That's okay. Just ask next time and you can rinse off your bike out back." I thanked him and sped off. Years later, he would loom large as my mechanical mentor, who also unknowingly provided a stage for the merry prankster in me.

Gas culture A cruise along Coast Highway includes taking in the sites of extinct gas stations on the corners of Center, Pearl, Anita and Thalia Streets. The one on Thalia used to be a Phillips 66, which had a marketing campaign about putting a kick in your gas tank. As part of the promotion, the station gave away selfadhesive, orange plastic horseshoes intended for their customer's rear windows. Being about 10, the pair I scored went up on my bedroom mirror. Remember what gas put a tiger in your tank? Or, "You can trust your car to the man who wears the star." The latter was the big red Texaco star. I had a toy Texaco oil tanker I used to play with in the bathtub. And it wasn't just that we had an oil barrel full of stations; back then, there were more than one of each brand in town. There were at least two Shell, Texaco, Union, Chevron and Mobil stations. I loved Mobil's big red Pegasus logo. Though neon was banned for commercial purposes here years ago, the mythical winged horse still flies. Next time you're driving south after dark on Coast Highway approaching Three Arch Bay, look up on the inland side. There's a big green house and in it, visible through the large plate glass windows, is a fully restored Mobil sign. Its wings flash back and forth, simulating flying. Way cool.

Even harder to imagine than Laguna as a 20 gas-station town is that these enterprises regularly staged "gas wars." There was so much oil around that stations had to drastically drop their prices to move their product.

From 1960 to 1973, gas prices scantly rose from 31 cents to 36 cents per gallon. That all changed with the 1973 gas crisis, a result of OPEC cutting off oil supplies to America and other countries that supported Israel during the Yom Kippur War. Suddenly a gallon of gas cost a whopping 53 cents, providing you could buy it. Gas rationing was imposed nationwide. You literally had to get up at the crack of dawn and get in line at the pumps to fill up because most stations closed their pumps by 8 a.m. I can remember sitting in my car before school at 5:30 in the morning, 20 cars in front of me and another 20 in back. And you couldn't buy gas just any day you wanted; license plates with odd ending numbers gassed up on odd days of the month day and even on even days.

Groovy Gulf A year after the gas crisis ended, I had a limitless supply of petroleum. This was due to me landing one of the greatest jobs I've ever had, being a gas jockey at the Gulf station on the corner of Legion and Coast Highway. I started in my junior year in high school.

The station owner's name was Don Prouse. I remember going in for my interview and being blown away that he was Popeye from the Shell station. He now sported a beard and the twitch in his left eye was more pronounced. He'd sold the Shell station a few years before and moved over to Gulf. He didn't recognize me at first, but when I reminded him of the sandy bike incident we had a good laugh and I got the gig.

He was a great boss, who was firm, but fair and fun to work with. Everybody was fun to work with there. We were like a family, including giving the place an endearing nickname, Don's Groovy Gulf. And the customers were family, too. Back then there was no such thing as self-service. Every customer got their windshield spotlessly washed and their oil, air and water checked. It wasn't just somebody taking money at a counter or a customer sliding a debit card into the pump. I had a personal relationship with these folks, many of whom I'd known since I was little kid. It wasn't just about gas either; most of our customers also had their cars repaired there as well.

Eventually I made a foray into the mechanical arena. By my senior year, I was selling and mounting tires, replacing fan belts and hoses, installing batteries and doing oil changes. This was not only fun, but also lucrative, as I received a commission on parts and labor.

My best oil and lube customer was a local chiropractor. He had a Roll Royce, which held eight quarts of oil. Most cars only hold four or five. He was very picky about his service. The drill was I'd drain the old oil, throw in the new oil, run the engine for about 15 minutes, drain out that oil, and then throw in another eight quarts. He was sure that running the engine with the first eight quarts somehow cleaned out the engine. I wasn't about to talk him out of it; I'd save the slightly used first eight quarts for my own use.

Working at Don's meant long and hard hours, but I still found time to goof around. This included pulling gags on tourists, like when someone would ask for directions I'd deadpan, "Sorry, but you can't get there from here." It was amazing how many actually accepted the answer and started to drive off. Not to worry, I always made sure they knew I was pulling their leg and correctly sent them on their way. My favorite stunt was when I'd pretend to be a blind gas station attendant.

I'd carefully walk up to the unsuspecting victim, my eyes vacuously staring up into space. They'd give me the usual, "Fill 'er up," or "Five bucks worth." I'd thoughtfully ask, "Great, uh, can you please tell me what kind of car you have?" Some would look at me and realize my handicap immediately. Less observant folks would often blurt, "What are you, blind?" Then the light bulb would go off, "Ohhhh… sorry." "That's okay," I'd quietly respond, "It happens all the time."

The bit only worked with certain cars. Volkswagen bugs were the easiest because you lifted-up the front hood to get to the tank, thus blocking the driver's view. Keep in mind; I had to see the pump to pull it off. Big cars with gas caps under the rear license plate were also fair game. If they were only getting a few dollars of gas, the pretense was a riskier proposition. Fortunately, the old style pumps made a lot of racket, clicking every time 10 cents worth rolled by. By that time, I was such a seasoned petroleum-dispensing technician, I could get the pump to literally stop on a dime. "Wow, that's amazing, how did you do that?" they'd ask. "I count the clicks," I'd coolly respond. The icing on the cake was if they paid by credit card. I'd stoop down and read their license plate number by hand then write it on the charge slip.

The gag only backfired once, when an unscrupulous customer gave me a one-dollar bill instead of a five. I looked him in the eye, "This is only a single." "You're not blind. You should be ashamed of yourself," he said. "So should you," I replied.

There was the random celebrity encounter, most memorable of which was the summer night that Donald Sutherland and family came in for directions and ice-cold sodas in a VW camper. A young Keifer was fast asleep in back.

There were also scenic benefits working at Don's. I'm not talking about the spectacular ocean view the station commanded. I can't begin to tell you how many beautiful women in swimsuits and low cut blouses patronized the establishment. Funny, but it always took me a lot longer to wash their windshields.

The zenith of gasoline girl-watching came on an eventful Halloween night when I worked alone. An extremely attractive regular rolled in. She had a wreath of twigs and leaves on her head and was wearing some kind of toga style costume. "What are you dressed up as?" I inquired. She popped out of the car, loosely clad in totally transparent lime green chiffon, with absolutely nothing on underneath. "I'm a wood nymph," she coyly offered, slowly turning around, leaving absolutely nothing to my overactive teenage imagination.

If I live to be a 100, I'll never forget that vision. The Gas Station history was originally featured in the Independent August 6, 2006.