My tank and spirits were filled at a gas station on a lonely stretch of the Trans-Canada Highway

This First Person piece was written by Stephen Douglas, who lives in Vancouver. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

On an eerily quiet stretch of the Trans-Canada Highway in Ontario, somewhere between Thunder Bay and Dryden, sits a plain-looking station. No fancy canopy, no LED signage. But it's the first break from white spruce and jack pine along the highway in close to an hour and my gas is running low, so I pull in.

Broken asphalt. Two diesel pumps and two regular gasoline pumps. The building is in need of new siding and there's not another soul in sight. I eye it all warily before stepping out from my hatchback, loaded with all the belongings I'm bringing from Toronto to my new home in Vancouver. 

I'm mid-way, with 2,000 more kilometres to go over the days ahead. It feels good to get the blood flowing through my legs again. I allow myself a little back stretch against the curve of the car door. Ah, the sun's warmth softens the tension I have been holding from focusing on the highway's many dips and bends all this distance. An 18-wheeler roars past, bellowing up dust. OK, time to gas up and forge onward.

"Please fill up then come inside to pay," a hand-scrawled sign reads. 

There's no card scanner here. I lift the nozzle and flip up the lever. The pump whirrs in that familiar way, but there are no numbers appearing on the display. I'm confused. I place the nozzle into the filler and squeeze. I can feel gas running through it, but still, nothing on the display. My mind straddles two thoughts at once; keep filling, which I am doing by default, and pay whatever after, or stop, go inside to let someone know there is a problem with the pump. Well, after 20 seconds of second-guessing, I stop, pull the nozzle out and hang it back on the pump. 

I open a creaky little door and am greeted by a smile from a petite woman behind a counter. "Hello," she tilts her head with a question mark. Is she Indian? Pakistani? I'm embarrassed that I can't tell the difference. 

"I'm sorry. I was trying to fill up but the pump wasn't working properly. It didn't display anything."

She said nothing, waiting for me to clarify.

"I mean, I don't know how much I have filled up."

"It says nothing on the pump? Did you flip the lever up?"

I explain that I could feel that some gas was flowing through the hose, but the display hadn't changed. I hope I'm making sense. 

She checks her register. The last reading was $108.48. My car wouldn't take that much even if it was empty. Anxiety creeps into my mind. Does she think I'm trying to get away without paying? 

"Well, that was someone else. Twenty minutes ago. That's not you."

I'm relieved. But what now?

A man appears from the back room. Overhearing us, he looks both puzzled and concerned. "Can you show me?" he asks. 

"Yes. Please."

We step back outside. He looks at the pump, back at me, back at the pump again.

"May I?" he asks, lifting the nozzle from the pump. 

I nod. He switches the lever on. I hear the pump whirr back into action and, to my dismay, the display lights up: 0.00 litres, $0.00. 

I must appear some kind of fool. 

He inserts the nozzle into the filler and runs it until it clicks off. It only took $7.88 worth.

"It's full."

"I know, but you see, I ran it before I came in. I only stopped because I thought there was a problem with the pump."

"Strange. How much do you think you filled?"

"It wasn't empty, perhaps two-thirds of a tank."

"Well, we added $7 here." I note that he rounded down. "So pay me whatever you feel is the correct total, but no more."

I pay him a few dollars more than I think the true total might be, erring on the side of honouring his trust in me.

"Would you like a coffee?" he adds, pointing to the small restaurant. I notice for the first time a little sign on the window reading, "Restaurant Canadian Punjabi style."

"Actually, yes, I could use a cup to keep me alert on the drive."

"It's a long haul," he agrees. I guess that is true of everyone driving this highway. 

"Again, I'm very sorry for your difficulty. Thank you for filling up here."

He is sincere in his courtesy, of course, but seems to be expressing something else. Gratitude for something bigger than my patronage, but what?

I grab a table and sit down to rest for a bit. Then I notice the floral decorations around the room. They put some thought into cheering up their customers. The coffee tastes better than I expected from a service station diner. A ramp is being built to the washroom and repair tools are out. They're fixing things up and putting their effort into offering comfort food to South Asian commercial rig drivers, a steady stream of whom come and go while I linger. They come for the thali. I try a plate. It's good! 

As I prepare to pay at the cash, the man and the woman are waiting together for me.

She holds her hand up when I offer my card. "We could not see the readout," he explains, "but we can tell from the difference in volume pumped, you purchased $5 less fuel than you believed. So, please, if you are OK with this, there is no charge for your breakfast."

I know the plate I ordered was worth well beyond $10. They are being kind. 

I leave both lighter and more hopeful about our future as a nation. All it took was a family fixing up a station more than 50 kilometres from the nearest town, creating a little oasis in the middle of the boreal forest for truckers who criss-cross the Canadian Shield with appliances and lumber and other essential goods that we take for granted.

Beyond that utility, though, there is something about them that makes me smile. Something in their thoughtful decoration, in their selfless service, in their joy, their gentleness, their desire to be accountable. It feels like it is one thing altogether, though I don't quite know what to call it. 

Sometimes the best things about people don't fit neatly into labels.

Somewhere between Winnipeg and Regina, a day after my stop at his station, it crossed my mind to write this story down. I reached out to Deepak, the owner, to ensure I had his permission. He agreed, but again in the humblest terms he added that he was just doing his job.

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