Gas, Lies, and Free Car Washes

The 1990s were a simpler time. Gas was cheap, car washes were a luxury, and I was a teenager with a moral compass that occasionally malfunctioned when presented with an opportunity for free stuff.

The gas station I went to had a deal: spend more than $25 filling up your tank, and you'd get a free car wash. The code was supposed to print out on the receipt at the pump, but it never worked. So you had to go inside to get a printed code that was good for ten days. It was a clunky system, the kind that was probably designed by someone who had never actually used it.

But I figured out a loophole.

The Loophole

The cashier, in an effort to be more efficient, had printed a whole stack of codes and just handed one out with each purchase. There was a pile of them sitting there, unguarded, waiting to be claimed.

I would take the printed code they gave me the one that was technically mine but I'd glance at the pile and memorize the code from the next printout. I'd use that one immediately at the car wash, and then I'd have another free wash to use within the next ten days.

It was a victimless crime, I told myself. The code was just sitting there. It was going to be given to someone anyway. I was just... redistributing resources. Like Robin Hood, but with soap and water.

The Execution

I did this every time I filled up. I'd walk in, pay for my gas, take my designated code, and then, with the casualness of a master spy, I'd memorize the next one. I'd walk out, use the stolen code right away, and pocket the legitimate one for later.

It was a perfect system. I always had a free car wash waiting for me. My car was immaculate. I was living the high life, one sudsy rinse at a time.

The Guilt

But here's the thing: I did feel bad.

Not bad enough to stop—my moral compass was clearly on a break, but bad enough that I thought about it sometimes. Because whoever was handed the codes after me probably had a frustrating time when it didn't work. They'd show up, code in hand, and the machine would beep with a red error light. They'd try again, confused, thinking they'd misread the numbers. Then they'd have to go inside, wait in line, explain the problem, and get a new code. All because of me.

It was a small inconvenience, but it was still an inconvenience. I was stealing something that wasn't mine- a physical object, but an opportunity. A moment of someone's time and patience.

The Justification

I justified it to myself in all the ways you'd expect from a teenager. The gas station was overcharging me anyway. They probably factored in a few free washes as a loss leader. The system was broken, and I was just exploiting a flaw in the system—not stealing from anyone in particular.

But I knew it wasn't true. The system was broken, yes, but I was breaking it more. And I was doing it for something as trivial as a car wash. A car wash! I wasn't feeding a family or saving lives. I was just making sure my car smelled like cherry blossom.

I eventually grew out of it. I stopped memorizing codes and started paying for my car washes like a responsible adult. But I never forgot the guilt. It wasn't a major guilt nothing that kept me up at night, but it was there, a tiny thorn in the side of my conscience.

And honestly, I still think about the people who got my expired codes. I picture them standing at the car wash machine, frustrated and confused, wondering why their car wash didn't work. I hope they eventually got their wash and that it was the best car wash of their lives. I hope they had a good day after that.

I don't think I'm a bad person. I did a bad thing a small, petty thing that caused minor inconvenience to strangers. But I learned something from it: every system is flawed, but exploiting those flaws isn't a victimless act. Someone, somewhere, pays the cost.

And sometimes that cost is just a few minutes of frustration. But it's still a cost.

I don't do it anymore. I pay for my car washes like a normal person. But every time I pull into a gas station and see the sign for a free car wash with a $25 fill-up, I think about that stack of codes. I think about the guilt I felt. And I smile, just a little, at the memory of my teenage self, trying to game the system and getting away with it for a while, anyway.