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Michael Yoo, on duty at Parkrose Shell

(Steve Duin)

He once had tenure in the Honolulu school district, but when he came back to Oregon, Michael Yoo says, "I couldn't get a job at McDonald's. It's weird how unmarketable an English degree is in this world."

Yoo had just bombed out on a job interview two months ago when he pulled into the Parkrose Shell station on Northeast Sandy and saw the "Help Wanted" sign.

"I thought it would be Steinbeckian," he says. Unpredictable. A rough, minimum-wage adventure.

Not just the sprint from one pump to another on this Tuesday morning. "I'm a 42-year-old, working at a gas station," he shrugs, taking the measure of things.

He punched in at 6:45 a.m. Two hours and 17 minutes into the shift, Yoo has yet to see his first tip.

Peter Williams, 34, is working 15 miles south, at the Chevron station in Oregon City. He juggles three jobs -- "One for rent, one for utilities, the third for spending money" -- and a schedule built around his son's dialysis treatments at Legacy Emanuel.

Peter Williams, mid-morning at the Oregon City Chevron

Twice a week, he rises at 4:30 a.m. to sit with Uriah at the hospital until noon, then works a 2 p.m.-midnight shift. Monday was much more low-key, just that early-morning commune with the commuters and his old Oregon City High School buddies.

Seven hours in? "I've got $2 in my pocket," Williams says.

"It's a used-and-bruised industry. If I'm dirty, I don't deserve a tip."

Three years ago, I watched a motorist at the Jersey Shore toss $2 to a Sunoco attendant, forever changing my attitude about the appropriate way to thank the guys at the pump.

Why do we reflexively throw quarters at our favorite barista, I wondered, and so casually stiff the guy wreathed in gas fumes on a summer afternoon?

That August 2011 column still generates a lot of traffic, though nothing compared to the cars that rolled through Lake Grove Chevron last Saturday morning. In the first seven hours the station was open, it rang up $17,611 in sales.

The two attendants on the lot, Colton Roedl and Kyan Roberts, had pocketed $7 in tips. So much for the power and influence of the Metro column.

"We don't get tipped a lot," concedes cashier Henry Ladd, who has worked at the station for 13 months.

In the land of milk, honey and mocha-black Mercedes?

"It's Lake Oswego. A lot of customers say, 'I don't have any small bills,'" Ladd said.

Others have no sympathy. "My dad has said he'll never tip gas-station attendants," Ladd says. "Never has. Never will. He doesn't think it's a job that deserves a tip."

The majority of drivers in Oregon -- one of two states that doesn't allow self-service at the gas pump -- would seem to agree. Spending $75 to fill the tank doesn't leave much room for generosity. Where does this end, they're wondering: Am I supposed to tip the postman? The TriMet driver? The cashier at Powell's?

They draw a line in the sand -- or the kitty litter -- that soaks up the leaking oil on the station lot.

Not everyone, though. Now and then, Yoo and Williams say, someone will thank them a $5 bill.

They're not complaining about the tipping point. I am.

"The coolest thing about this job -- actually, the only cool thing -- is you give a little happiness to people," Yoo says. "You can see when they're upset or angry, and give 'em a little love. Something they're not going to get everywhere."

"You feel their day and take on their stress," Williams adds. "You're a mini-therapist. Anything to get them out of here with a smile on their face. That gets more tips than doing windshields.

"It's nice to have that something extra. If someone gives you a couple bucks for a Gatorade, that makes for a nice day. But I still treat everyone the same."

-- Steve Duin