This Happened:

I was driving. I needed gas. I pulled off at the next gas station. I was in Oregon.

A burly-on-the-verge-of-husky man approached me. He had on a flannel shirt and sported an Oregonian beard, which means it was thick and proud and fair trade and recyclable. He was there to pump my gas. For me. Instead of me.

"How ya doin' boss?" he said.

I was annoyed by him—by his presence.

"Good," I said on my way out of the van. "How are you?"

"Can't complain."

I could, and am now.

"I wanna fill it, or get as close as I can on this." I said, pulling out my fleet card. "This acts like a debit, so I'll have to put in a pin."

I finished with all of those words before handing him the card, despite the fact that he'd been nodding his head knowingly and beckoning with his hands for me to give him the card and let him take it from there ever since the "ah" part of "I wa...."

Now came the moment for his expertise to kick in. This was what he trained for. If he was ever at a gas station in another state and came across an old lady having trouble pumping gas, and he helped her, and she thanked him, he could say "No problem at all, ma'am. It's what I do," and I was about to see why. In what would have been an out-of-body experience in any other state (save New Jersey, which you can always get out of on a half tank anyway), I watched him insert the card into the card reader slot, remove it quickly, and punch in a response to whatever question or option came up on the screen, presumably yes to "we're still getting away doing this here, right?"

"It says see attendant." He said.

I didn't have a mirror handy, so I opted instead to ask, "but did you run it as debit? Because it has to be debit, and I need to enter a pin."

"Hang on," he said. He swiped the card, hit a key, checked the screen, and checked the back of the card to see if it was there. Being a three-dimensional object, it was. He checked the screen again, then both sides of the card.

"I guess we don't take these here."

"Are you sure? I still haven't had a chance to enter my pin. Is it not even getting that far, to let me put in my pin number?"

"Well," he said, "I can try it in here." He walked to the attendants' booth and tried the card there. It didn't work. He looked at me. "You got cash or another way to pay?" His beard looked rushed, almost exasperated.

"Sure but I'm not ready to give up on that. I don't understand why you aren't having me enter the pin. You're running it debit and not credit?"

He looked away in a flash of inspiration. "Hey Mike, do we take a fleet card like this?"

Mike was passing by at full walking speed, no doubt on important gas station attendant business, but he was a small man and didn't take long to stop.

"What have we got," he said more than asked, and took the card to inspect both sides. They were there all right. He motioned to another car. "You get them and I'll try this." I followed Mike.

"It's a company card but you have to run it as debit, and I've got a pin for it." I said as we walked.

Mike tried the card with no success.

"Sorry boss. Have you got another card."

It's debit. Did you try debit, not credit?"

"Oh, it's debit?"