Rosie's Rebuke
© 2004 Ken Overcast
Rosie worked down at the Co-op when I was a
kid. My Dad and Grandad always did a lot of the
shoppin' to keep our outfit going at that place, so
we got to know him pretty well. I guess his real
name was Cloyd Rosenbaum, but Rosie is all anyone
ever called him. What a nice fella he was, too. He
was a broad shouldered, red faced sort of a guy
that walked with a pretty pronounced limp. His gait
seemed to get a little worse as he grew older, and
his hearing wasn't as good as it could have been either.
He was the guy in charge of the hardware store,
and the one that pumped the gas or got the barrel
of oil for you from the warehouse across the street
from the station if that's what you needed. Rosie
was nearly as old has my Grandad, and had worked
in that place ever since I could remember.
One July day back in the fifties, he got himself
in a real mess. I just happened to be in the right
place to hear the entire exchange I'm about to relate,
or the poor guy would have probably gone to his
grave wondering why that lady from back east had
been so rude to him.
A big blue Oldsmobile with Illinois plates pulled up
beside the gas pump, and as always, Rosie was on
the job. His limp got even more pronounced when
he was in a hurry, and giving good prompt service
was a matter he took very seriously. He hobbled
out to the car just as the gentleman doing the driving
was getting out.
"Fill 'er up?"
"Sure. Better check the oil, too," the guy said over
his shoulder as he headed into the office. "Thanks."
Rosie started the gas pump, then dutifully checked
the oil and was just heading around the car, washing
all the windows as I happened by. Boy, gas station
service sure has slipped, hasn't it? I heard the entire
exchange he had with the lady passenger and giggled
my way into the station to watch the enfolding drama
out the window.
As he approached the passenger side of the
vehicle, the lady rolled down the window and said
something to Rosie that he didn't quite hear correctly.
He smiled and gave her a courteous answer, and
hobbled over to the building and began to unroll the
air hose that was wrapped around an old tire rim
nailed on the wall.
Had I not heard the conversation, the poor guy
would have never understood the icy response he
received from the lady when he returned. He was
standing there, air hose in hand, with a friendly face
full of anticipation, as the obviously disgruntled lady
rolled up her window, locked the door, and angrily
turned her back to the helpful attendant. Totally con-
fused, he re-coiled the air hose and finished the
windows, with the clearly indignant lady insolently
snarling at him through clenched teeth.
"Wonder what was the matter with her?" he
asked (mostly to himself), as he came back into
the station and the driver who had finished paying
for the gas went out the door.
Now, Rosie was a perfect gentleman, so you can
just imagine his horror as I explained the lady's
strange behavior through sobs of laughter.
The lady had asked, "Excuse me Sir, but do you
have a rest room?"
Now, that seems like a logical enough request,
but back in the days before there were vacuum
cleaners out near any of the gas pumps and the
vehicle floor boards were routinely cleaned with a
whisk broom, what Rosie THOUGHT he heard was
every bit as logical. Here's what he heard:
"Excuse me Sir, but do you have a whisk broom?"
"No Ma'am we don't," he smiled helpfully. "But
don't worry. Just open the door, and I'll blow 'er
out with the air compressor."