Zebulon was late to work Friday night, and through his hurried phone call with Steve, all any of us knew for sure was that something had happened to him — now, what that something was we weren’t sure of — it was either “a bunch of guys grabbed me, held me down, and lopped off my ponytail, oh god oh god I’m going to kill myself” or “someone stole my gas card.”

Apparently, on his way into work, Zebulon decided to put a full tank of gasoline into his car. He pulled into the Enroy station at the Royal Farms on the corner of Jarrettsville Pike and Hess Road in Harford County. He walked into the store where he found a large crowd and a longer line waiting to be helped at the registers. Presumeably, there was also waiting to be had for the eight gas pumps as well. Zebulon waited patiently in line until he was able to pre-pay for gasoline on the pump he’d selected. With his gasoline paid for, he went outside and found someone stealing his gas.

When he said this, I imagined someone snaking the hose around Zebulon’s car and filling up their car while casting furtive glances about to make sure no one was watching them. And then Zebulon explained how it was that this person was stealing his gasoline.

They pulled up to the pump. And the reason they were able to pull up to the pump was because Zebulon didn’t park at the pump he wanted gasoline from. Instead, he parked in one of the spaces in front of the Royal Farms, and apparently believed that by some strange magic, people were going to somehow know that he’d prepaid for gasoline at a particular pump and avoid it.

Zebulon didn’t get his gas. Apparently he had to harrass and badger the counter-staff at Royal Farms for fifteen minutes before they refunded him his money — personally, if I’d been working the register at Royal Farms, I’d've invoked the Stupidity Clause, which is: “Your Stupidity Is Not a Valid Reason for a Refund.”

Many hours later, as I finished up my shift (extended, because A.’s apartment door broke from the inside and she wasn’t able to get in so I worked her late — no big, need the $$), I stopped by the same station to fill my car. As I walked in to pre-pay, C-something collected my money, looked at the logo on my golf shirt, and inquired, “You’re parked at the pump … right?”

The life-lesson here, when pre-paying, is:

1. Park at the Pump
2. Then pay.
3. Then pump.
4. Then leave.

From C-something’s tone, I can tell you right now that ten years from now, new employees of that station will hear the tale of the pizza-manager’s actions as an example that, yes, people are capable of incredible acts of non-brain-functioning. At the Franchise, meanwhile, this story will become yet another in the growing book of Zebulonisms.