The four Pemex guys were sitting in the shade, doing nothing, when we pulled into the gas station.
We really didn't need gas, but on Mexico highways you might not find another station for miles.
We were the only customers at the time and as Curt headed toward the restrooms, three of the four came out to the car. All three seemed overly eager to help. Oil? Additives? Air? No, no, no, I replied to all of them.
Just gas. I stood there, watching them, watching the pump. Waiting. The gas pump read 200 pesos. Even. I handed over a 500 peso bill. And they gave me back 200 pesos.
Familiar with the old "short change the gringos" trick at more than one Pemex station, I pointed out the shortage. No, they were correct, they insisted, claiming that the pump had stopped after 100 pesos. Then, they said, they restarted the pump, so it only showed 200 pesos, but I owed them 300 pesos.
I began to insist on my change. I wanted my 100 pesos and I wasn't leaving without it (about $10 in USDollars, if you're reading this north of the border). All three insisted, and I resisted.
For awhile I thought about just giving up and getting out of there, letting them keep the overcharge. But the old midwestern, Swedish stubbornness kicked in and I continued to argue. Loudly and assertively. I repeated myself several times, held out my hand, told them my gas tank couldn't hold as much as they claimed they put in. I wasn't going to back down.
The three of them surrounded me, insisting on 300 pesos worth. I insisted it was only 200. And I wasn't leaving until I got my money.
One finally poked another and said, "give it to her."
As I took my pesos and slipped back behind the wheel, I saw the fourth guy. Still sitting in the shade, pointing at his friends and laughing.
He knew that the gringa had beaten them at their game.
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