Little Stories: The “Official Inspection Station” Sign

In which I have a brief but epic misunderstanding at a gas station.

I grew up in the 1970s on Long Island, in a small town called Blue Point. We had about 3,000 people, no mayor, no town council, an all-volunteer fire department, and a few scattered stores. Nobody famous ever came from Blue Point, and nothing important ever happened there.

But Blue Point did have a gas station — a Citgo. Like so many gas stations at that time, it had a garage that did auto repairs. One day when I was eight or nine years old, my father was having the tank filled up while I sat in the passenger seat, and I noticed that the wall of the garage had a sign like the one shown above: “Official State of New York Motor Vehicle Inspection Station.”

I was flabbergasted. Imagine — out of all the service stations in all the cities and towns across New York State, the authorities had designated our local Citgo as their official vehicle inspection site. What an honor! I didn’t even understand what vehicle inspection was all about, but it seemed like it must be important. I imagined cars coming from all over the state to get inspected in Blue Point. It was all very exciting, and I was suddenly proud of my hometown in a way I’d never felt before.

The following conversation then took place:

Me [very eager]: While we’re here, should we get the car inspected?

My father: It’s not time for that yet. We have to do it once a year, but not for a few more months.

Me [somewhat deflated]: Oh. Well, it’s still pretty neat that the official New York State inspection station is right here in Blue Point, right?

My father [not really getting it]: Mm-hmmm.

Me: It’s lucky, too, because this way you don’t have to drive very far when you want the car inspected. Imagine if you had to go all the way to Albany or something like that.

My father: Why would I go to Albany to get the car inspected?

Me: That’s what I mean — you don’t have to go to Albany, because the official inspection station is here in Blue Point.

My father: What are you talking about?

Me: Look, it says so right on the sign!

And that’s when my father explained that our local Citgo wasn’t the official inspection station; it was just an official inspection station — one of many. To prove it, he drove a few miles to the next town and pulled in at another gas station that had the same sign.

What a letdown. Fifty years later, I still think of this story when I get my own car inspected each year.

Little Stories, focusing on memories from my youth, is a recurring feature of Inconspicuous Consumption.

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Paul Lukas has been obsessing over the inconspicuous for most of his life, and has been writing about those obsessions for more than 30 years. You can contact him here.