Newsletter – May 9, 2025
PHOTO CREDIT: Steve Healy/Indianapolis Star
Fresh out of college and soon relocating to Los Angeles for grad school I got my first credit card. A Shell Oil Credit Card, my first dive into high finance. Debt.
“You’ll need to establish a credit record,” my college roommate had assured me. “I have three gas cards already. And a card for Sears & Roebuck!”
If I ever wanted to get a swing at the big leagues—Bank Americard and Master Charge*—I’d have to spend some time in the minor leagues.
Okay: grown-up life. I’m in it to win it.
I pulled into a Shell station on the outskirts of Los Angeles and filled the tank of my VW Rabbit with unleaded gasoline, careful not to ruin my transmission with the regular leaded kind.
The attendant came out to my car after I finished pumping and I handed him my Shell Oil Credit Card, just like I’d seen Dad do over the years. Within a few minutes the attendant was back with a little plastic tray that held my card upright in a slot behind the receipt baring the imprint of my name and card number.
Before handing me the little plastic tray, though, he went to the back of the car to write down the license plate number. He was several years younger than me and sounded like he spoke more Spanish than English, so I figured he was being careful to do everything correctly, and by the book.
I watched him in my rearview mirror look carefully at my Indiana license plate and write something down, only to look at the plate again and write something more, and then look at the plate again and write something more, repeating that process several times over. He seemed to be writing one number, or one letter, at a time. And he didn’t look confident that he was getting it right.
When he finally brought the little plastic tray to my driver’s window, I saw what had happened. He got the license number written accurately but in the little box for the two letters of the state, he had written in careful bold capitals WANDER, with the letters spilling over into the box beside it.
Indiana had launched a bid for more tourism called “Wander Indiana,” and the new license plates had the word WANDER in brighter, bolder letters than the name of the state. I figured this guy’s hesitation was because he had never heard of a state called Wander.
Hey, I’d lived in a couple of foreign countries where I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. Even on my first day of Primary School in England, I was mocked by my schoolmates when I asked where to find the bathroom.
“You want ta take a bath?”
“No…” I fumbled figuring I had used a gross Americanism. “The…the restroom.” Yes, that’s what they would call it!
“You want ta rest?”
Now I was blushing furiously, trying not to say that I had to pee. They took pity on me.
“You want ta use the loo?”
I had forgotten that word. “Yes. Yes, please!”
I looked at the word WANDER on the onion skin receipt and decided not to say anything. I signed the box at the bottom, took my Shell Oil Credit Card and handed over the tray, thanking him with a smile and a nod.
I wondered if he would wonder about that state called Wander.
TTFN
(*They’re now called Visa and Master Card.)
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My middle grade novel, The Most Amazing Museum of Los Angeles, is available through The BookBaby Bookshop at https://store.bookbaby.com/book/the-most-amazing-museum-of-los-angeles
Eric Margerum 