ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
In a touching coming-of-age story, a local father has bared witness to his primary-school-aged son fill up the wagon using the high-flow bowser for the first time this morning.
Just prior to dropping his boy off a St Fanning’s Primary in Betoota Heights, grazier Darcy Fogle flicked on the blinker and pulled into the Castlereagh Road Service Station to fill up.
But there was a grey fucking nomad at the only regular diesel pump and Christ knows those gibbering old economic handbrakes take their sweet time at service stations – so Darcy decided to use the truck-only high-flow – something that only the most experience diesel cowboys should attempt.
Just as he rounded back around up to the pump, a quiet voice whispered from the back seat as he turned off the engine.
“Can I fill up the car, Dad?” said his 8-year-old son, George.
Darcy paused and pursed his lips. If his wife ever found out, he’d have the Jamie Oliver Teflon boinged up the backside of his head.
Was he old enough, he thought to himself.
He thought back to when he was a boy. When his old man first gave him the responsibility of filling up the two-tone wood-panelled Zephyr with that sweet-smelling super.
He was only 7.
“Yeah, mate. You can,” he said.
“But let me help you. This is the high-flow pump and if you mess this up, I’ll most likely end up in prison. Don’t ever tell your mother I let you do this.”
Young George smiled and jumped out of the late model Sahara and ran quickly around to the pump.
Two hands and twenty seconds of grunting later and he had the fuel cap off.
“Put it in the holder, mate. That way you won’t forget to screw it back up when you’re done.
George nodded.
The pump handle was heavy but not too heavy for the growing lad.
Again, with a great amount of effort, he got the nozzle into the fuel tank and look up at Dad for the next green light to proceed.
“Now squeeze her gently. No, wooooo! You have to hold the bastard in there. Squeeze gently and push firmly at the same time. That’s it, mate. Keep her steady.”
Now Darcy knew the main tank was pretty much empty. She’d be taking close to 90 odd litres here.
It was going to be a long haul for his son’s little hands.
But he got there in the end – after ten minutes of gentle encouragement.
He told Geroge to get back in the wagon while he went into to pay the man, who gave Darcy a filthy look up and down after watching what’d just happened on the CCTV.
Just and the father-son duo peeled out of the service station, the fucking aforementioned grey nomads pulled out in front of them without first checking their mirrors with their half-fucked cloudy retired city folk eyes.
“Fucks sake,” said Darcy.
“What Dad?” said George.
“Looks like we’re going to be late.”
More to come.
