I’ll admit that I’m old enough to remember the full-service gas station. My mom would drive up to the pump at the DX Station and roll down her window. A man in denim overalls with permanent oil stains around his fingernails always waited on us. I never knew his real name; we all called him Tater. “What can I get for you today?” He’d fill the tank and check the oil while we waited. A friend of my father, he took extra care with my mom’s car in honor of his memory. My mom would chit-chat with him about the weather or the local doings in town. Everything stopped for a while as he talked, cleaned the windshield, then wiped his hands. She’d pay him, and we’d be on our way, back into the hectic rhythm of our day.

I was glad I hadn’t rushed. It made me consider what kind of a community I want to live in. Is automated, fast, and isolated what we really want? Or should we support a slower pace where we talk to each other? A place where we look at people’s faces, learn a little bit about their stories, and share a few thoughts.

I also remember transitioning to the self-service pump. After all, my time is valuable. It was easy: slide the card, decline the offer of a car wash, choose the grade of gas, pump it, grab the receipt, and be on my way. If I thought about it, I’d clean the windshield. It was faster, for sure, but I didn’t say a word to anyone. We’ve been trained to do for ourselves now, but I miss the interaction, the easy conversations with people like Tater.

I’ve been thinking about self-service a lot since Christmas. I noticed that one of my grocery stores suddenly had “You Bag” aisles. And since we’re all in a rush at Christmas, I hurried my way through. But as I got to the car, I started wondering how many baggers would be out of a job as soon as the customers got trained in. It bothered me. So, when I went shopping at other stores during the holidays, I made a conscious choice to go through the full-service lines, even though it took longer. I wanted to support local workers and local jobs. And I like the chit-chat.

I’m not perfect in my choices. Some days, I still hurry through the fast lane. But the other day, I chose the full-service lane. It was slow. I jumped into that mental race as I watched the customers in the other lane speed their way through. I looked to my bagger, a girl with Down syndrome, taking great care to pack the bag. I glanced at the other lane; two more customers made it through. The man at my check-out worked methodically scanning the items. The woman who would have been behind me now passed through the other lane and out the door. Finally, I was next.

The man at the check-out scanned each item slowly. I had to fight the thought that I might be halfway home by now. But, then I had to ask myself how much time had this really cost me: 5 minutes? Maybe 10? I looked at his face for the first time. He was older and struggled a bit, as his hands had a slight tremor. It’s hard to know people’s stories, but where might he be if he didn’t have this job? Was this job paying for his health insurance or maybe his rent? Suddenly, I felt grateful that he had the job and that the bagger had hers. And that I was standing in their line.

“Crazy weather, huh?” I said.

“Yes it is, but spring is coming,” he smiled.

He finished my order; I paid and took my cart. “Have a wonderful day,” the bagger smiled.

“I will. You, too.” I said. I was glad I hadn’t rushed. It made me consider what kind of a community I want to live in. Is automated, fast, and isolated what we really want? Or should we support a slower pace where we talk to each other? A place where we look at people’s faces, learn a little bit about their stories, and share a few thoughts. My time is important. And my time is more valuable than I thought.

Jane Jeffries is a member of the Chippewa Valley Writers Guild, mostly a playwright, and sometimes a teacher at UW-Stout.

Thinkpieces are reader-submitted reflective essays. A wide variety of ideas, analyses, and notions are welcome. Submit your essay for consideration to giffey@volumeone.org.