Gas Jockey Robbery

Gas Jockey Robbery

I managed to get a part-time job at a gas station in east end London, Ontario, near the local racetrack. I was called a gas jockey. In those days, the east side was home the of manufacturers like Kellogg’s, McCormick Canada, institutions such as London Psychiatric Hospital, and government properties such as Wolseley Barracks, and London Airport. The largest source of entertainment was the Western Fair and Raceway on Dundas St East. Our gas station was located across the road.

The functions of the job were reasonably simple. Fill cars with gas, wash windshields, check the lights, check the oil, take payment, see them on their way. Yes, we had to perform those services almost every time. One of my favourite services was washing the windshield when the girls from the local Catholic high school would drive in for a fill-up. They would sit three in the front seat and every time I would wash the windshield two would put their feet on the dashboard. Got an eye full each time!

We also operated a car wash. Every now and then, a driver would panic inside the car wash. They would put their car in drive and try to drive out of the wash. However, their wheels were locked inside of a metal track, to prevent them from moving within the car wash. By driving out they jumped the track, turn the car sideways, and have the side door mirrors ripped off by the oscillating brushes. Horns would start honking and the yelling would begin.

One of the perks of the job was the local pizzeria. Not that we got free food, or anything. The owner, it was alleged, had ties with the underworld. Every Saturday night he would pull into our station and park his Lincoln Continental. Our job was to watch his car while he ate dinner at his restaurant. Who ever worked that shift made a quick twenty bucks! I did my best to work Saturday nights.

The station’s lone cash register was located inside the waiting room, out in the open, six feet from the front door. I suggested to the owner that perhaps it should be moved to reduce the threat of theft. Since I was new, the suggestion fell on deaf ears. It had been in the same place for twenty years, so why change it now… Then, we got robbed.

To be honest, it was not a hold-up. It was a swarming. Today, that term is familiar. You see it in the news often. In those days, swarming was innovative and unexpected.

There were only two of us working that day. No fulltime employees or supervisors were on site. Just us part-timers. It was early afternoon when we got swamped with business. At one point, I was under a car fixing the lightbulb of the rear licence plate, and my partner was in a bay switching out a flat tire. As well as, dealing with the cars at the gas pumps. It was crazy busy! The problem arose during our cash-out that evening. We were short exactly 17 twenty-dollar bills, $340. I counted the till, as did my partner. The shortage was real. I picked up the phone and called our supervisor with the news. “Wait right there!” he barked.

Upon his arrival, he also counted the till, twice. The answer was the same. Short $340.

We locked up the station and were instructed to go home. The police were contacted at some point. I found out the hard way when they visited my school and discovered me in a class. They called me out and said I needed to visit the police station for questioning. I was officially terrified. My partner got the same request.

I had never been at a police station before, let alone be interrogated in one. Suffice to say, I was a nervous wreck. We entered a small room. The walls were covered in perforated wall board. Just like on TV, I thought. I took the chair one of the detectives pointed to. Yes, I was being interrogated by two detectives! This was the big time!

Before long, I was being peppered with questions by each of them. I did my best to answer them, but I finally had to complain. “Stop asking questions so fast. I can’t answer them!” I protested. They eased up and it became more of a conversation. Afterward, one of them indicated that they did not believe I robbed the station. Thank goodness, I sighed. They did not believe my partner did it either. Turns out the police got the same story from the two us. They had to suspect an outsider.

Despite the police findings, the owner and supervisor were convinced we robbed them. They made our workdays unpleasant and uncomfortable. We were no longer trusted. During one shift, the supervisor and I were having a chat in the waiting room. It was a quiet day. A car pulled up and a young man got out and walked through the front door. The supervisor called him by name and shook his hand. They spoke for a few minutes and the young man left. I turned to my supervisor and asked who he was. Apparently, he was a former gas jockey who was recently fired. Why did I want to know, the supervisor asked? I said that the same guy was there the day $340 went missing. To me, this was no coincidence.

I called the police and explained what happened. A week later, while at work, the supervisor said the police had been by to inform him of an arrest, the young man who visited us earlier.

I was glad that my partner and I were exonerated by the arrest. It did not, however, change our standing at work. We were not to be trusted. We both left our jobs shortly thereafter.

Donald O’Connor