There is a Mobil Gas Station in my neighborhood which was vandalized several months ago. Local hoods had spray painted the word “PEEP” over the trademark Mobil pegasus logo in what could only be described as a perfect Pantone color match to the shade of red in the logo itself. The effect made more astute pedestrians and motorists look twice to make sure that the graffiti was not intentional.

The act probably occurred in April or May of this year and now it’s the middle of August; the “PEEP” is still there. I wondered why this gas station had failed to either clean or replace the sign and came to the conclusion that (a) the paint was too difficult to get out of what appears to be fiberglass, and (b) the red tape with the top brass is hard to cut through.

The Mobil station is owned by Anwar Farrid, a middle-aged Chechnyan immigrant who has amassed a minor fortune by opening franchises around Brooklyn, Queens, and Staten Island. He currently owns the Mobil station in question, two Subway restaurants, four Tasti-D-Lites, a White Castle, and is in negotiations for a Taco Bell. He spends a considerable amount of time on vacation and has met only a small handful of his employees. He would have a major drug problem, however he doesn’t know anyone who sells any drugs.

In December of 2003, he hired Lemont Harwood, a 34-year-old twice-divorced college graduate with a degree in Franco-Prussian Political Engineering who has recently been hit by a wave of general unease after unintentionally defaulting on his student loan the previous month. He likes red jelly beans and is trying to quit smoking. He has been manager of the station for eleven months and serves one weekend a year at the Naval Reserve.

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At 5:38 PM, Eastern Standard Time on August 18th, 2006, Mr. Farrid called Lemont to complain about the graffiti on the sign.

“Lemont, you have to call the Mobil headquarters. I tell you this three months ago that we need new sign,” he said in a stern but earnest tone.

“Yes, Mr. Farrid, I apologize for not getting to it sooner,” he paused, inadvertently appealing to Anwar’s entrepreneurial spirit. “Things are quite busy around here”

“This is what I like to hear, but please do something about that sign.”

Upon ending the conversation with his boss, Lemont dialed the 888 number scrawled onto the back of a towing company’s business card that was affixed to the side of the register with packing tape. An automated operator answered, and after punching in several digits to properly direct his call, Lemont was connected to Barbara Nagle, Mobil headquarters franchise relations operator #957. She preferred it, generally, that people called her “Barb.”

“Thank you for calling Franchise Relations, this is Barb; how may I be of assistance on this fine day?” She said.

As far as cliches went, Barb had it nailed brilliantly; slightly overweight and slightly over forty, she held all the trappings of an old maid’s early stages down. The Precious Moments figurines, the three overfed and obnoxious calicos rescued from shelters and streets, tattered remnants of Laura Ashley garments, and the affinity for Christian rock and Wheel of Fortune. Her life revolved predictably around the job, her ailing mother and needlepoint, but nonetheless her demeanor was pleasant to the point that it actually gave off an odor.

“Hi, my name is Lemont Harwood, and I am the manager of location #1059. Our branding logo was vandalized a few months back and we need to replace it.”

“Okay, just give me a second here,” Barb responded over the sound of clacking computer keys. “Now do you have the part number for that?”

“Part number?”

“Yes, we actually distribute four or five different sign sizes, so I am going to need to know what one you’re using.”

“Oh,” Lemont answered, slightly confused. “I’m afraid I don’t know what it is; it was installed before I started here.”

“Well, hmm. Let me just call up the catalogue descriptions here, maybe you can tell me what size it is.”

“Not sure, it’s two to four feet, maybe?” Lemont said.

“Can you get a little more specific? Like a guesstimate?”

“It’s outside the store, I’d have to put you on hold for a second.”

“That’s not a problem, Lemont, I have all day,” Barb quipped, hoping for a laugh.

Lemont snorted a begrudging approval through his nostrils and followed through with his promise. About forty five seconds later, he returned with a more accurate diameter for the sign.

“Hi. All right, it’s roughly three and a half feet.”

“Great; that helps me a lot. That’s part number #42DDL601. So let me confirm the location so we can ship that out right away,” and then Barb read off the station’s address and contact information accurately to a series of “yups” on Lemont’s part. “Okay, just one more second while my computer calls up the right screen. How will you be paying for this today?”

“Pardon?” Lemont was confused again.

“Since you are at a franchise and not at a company-owned location, you are not insured for missing or damaged promotional materials reported more than sixty days after the incident.”

Lemont realized his error in previously volunteering the fact that the sign was defaced months ago. He stammered slightly as he attempted to bargain with Barb, who, as one by the book, was having none of it. Theoretically, Mr. Farrid would have a very difficult time accepting the news that he would have to pay $890 to have the sign replaced when Lemont could have had it done for free at the time of the vandalization. Lemont panicked quietly.

“Can you hang on a minute?” He asked Barb. He would have to lie to Mr. Farrid to round off the edges; as he composed himself with Barb on hold, he stared onto the cars on Third Avenue, racking his brain for a plausible explanation as to justify spending nearly $1000. Lemont switched lines and speed-dialed Farrid’s cell phone number. No answer.

“Shit.”

Nervously, Lemont left an urgent plea for Mr. Farrid to call the station as soon as humanly possible with the business’ credit card number, as the catalogue for promotional parts had been radically updated and the sign they had been using was no longer in stock, thus it would require a seemingly large sum to acquire it.

“I know it’s steep, but we don’t really have any other option,” he said portraying a false mixture of surprise and disgust.

“Shit.”

He switched back over to Barb who had been gleefully knitting a booty for the baby she would never have. “Hi I’m back.”

“Hey did you get that payment information, so that I can go ahead and get the sign sent out?”

“No actually, um,” Lemont begain. He was now just trying to buy enough time so that Mr. Farrid could call the station back while Lemont had Barb on the phone. Lemont figured that it was very close to five o’clock Central time when he began the call on this Friday afternoon and HQ was very tight about keeping its operators overtime, especially on Friday afternoons. He was right. “I have to wait for my boss to call back with the number, it should be a minute or so.”

Barb was faced for the first time in many years with a moral dilemma. Lemont seemed like a nice man and she should wait a few minutes while he gets the number; but at the same time, her supervisor would be breathing down her neck to get the call wrapped up. Her seven year record as an operator had nary a blemish on it, and refusing a direct “call termination request” from a supervisor would certainly earn her an ugly write-up. From there, she thought, it was just a few short steps to a downward spiral of disciplinary actions that would result in her becoming a junkie and her cats losing their beautiful, beautiful fur.

Self interest won over, and Barb informed Lemont that she would have to end the call. “But we’ll be here bright an early at nine A.M., Central Time on Monday!”

“No please,” Lemont begged into the phone, his face wearing the pathetic expression that would be traditionally used when the other end of the conversation was standing face to face with him. “He’ll call me back any second; I promise!”

“I’m sorry, sir, but my supervisor has asked me to end the call due to our union restrictions.”

“Shit.”

That did it. Any remorse she may have felt for not continuing with the call vanished in a cloud of offended shock.

“Sir, there is no need for that kind of language,” Barb said disdainfully, “I am going to have to end the call now. Good evening.”

Lemont stood frozen, staring at the receiver in his hand. He regretted dearly not making a firmer appeal to Barb. He mourned for himself as he thought about the remainder of the work day; Mr. Farrid would be mad that the situation was not rectified immediately. Mr. Farrid was also the type of person to remember your last one or two acts of merit and eschew any previous triumphs or failures. The chances were likely that not getting the sign taken care of would bring the axe down on him.

“Fuck it.” Lemont walked out from behind the counter and went outside where the attendant, Harold was cleaning the plate-glass window.

Lemont asked Harold for a cigarette, to which the attendant passively obliged. Lemont walked slowly, inhaling the balmy summer air; his thoughts were still racing about how he would handle the sign issue. He looked back at the defaced item in question and shook his head. The solution came to him quick and fast: he would say that he ordered the sign, and then just re-order it on Monday morning. He felt good. So good and relieved that maybe he didn’t need that cigarette. But then, he would still need to find a way to get Mr. Farrid’s credit card number. His thoughts swung back to the horrors of his dilemma and how unhelpful all the total jerks around him had been.

He held the lighter suspended and began to light the cigarette still dangling in his mouth. “Motherfu–.”

The flame caught an invisible snake of gasoline vapor and the entire block corner exploded in a spectacular blaze.