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GASGATE IN WHICIITHE CHAMPION OF THE WORKING M AN IS FINGEREIYFÓR PETIT LARCENY ĄTTHEPUMPS By GARRJSON KEILLOR Nov. 10, 1997

Monday aftcmoon, I drove into town for gas and stopped at the self-service, and tłic pump wouldn’t work. Gas \vouldn’t come out. So I drovc down the hill to anothcr sclf-servicc, and I got about a dollar’s worth In when a heavy-set wonian strodc up and said, "You just come from the Stop *N Shop?” I said T had. "You drovc away witliout paying for your gas," she said.

She was the manager of the station up the hill, and she had chascd mc in her car. She said 1 owed her $3.79. I told her that was wrong. The pump at her station didn't work. No gas camc through the nozzle. Not a pcnny's worth. The pump dial showed all zeros. "Chcck my gas gauge." 1 said. "The needle is way belo w empty."

"How do I know your gas gauge works?" she said.

"You can watch it work as I fili up with gas," I said.

"I don't have time for that," she said. "I need $3.79 from you, or l'm going to havc to cali the cops." And then I thought of tiiosc aging scrcen stars over the ycars who'vc been arrested for shoplifting, handeufibd, hauled down to headąuartcrs for boosting a set of barrettes, and I decided I did not want to end my carccr that way. The presumption of iunocence is not strong in this country. And so I paid up— to avoid bringing shame to my fam iły.

What hurt most was tlie triumphant crimc-stopper look on the heavy-set womaifs face, her morał hauteur as she jabbed her finger at me and raised her voice so that she could be hcard by passersby 50 fl. away. She wasn't just collecting on a debt, she was testifying before a Senate committec. She was Acting. This hurt mc. Especially as I remembered having behaved that way mysclf And it struck me that Gasgatc was my penancc for the Solidarity Forever affair.

I did a conccrl in Chicago on Labor Day Sunday and a wcck before sent the lyrics of Solidarity Forever to be printed in the conccrt program for tlie audiencc to sing. The sponsor sent back a message: "Can't sing Solidarity Forevcr-too political." I lookcd at that message, and I hcard tlie rattlc of drums and tlie skirl of bagpipcs. I heard tlie Autliors Guild lining up bchind mc. PEN. The A.C.L.U. Being censored is a high pri vilege for any American writer, and wc cxpericncc it approximately zero times in our career. Our great bugaboo is not ccnsorship; it’s getting remaindered, seeing our brave writing stackcd on tlie bookstorc floor, marked down to $1.89—and nobody buying it at tliat pricc either. Writers of today know that the nobility bestowed on Henry Miller and D.H. LawTcncc will never be ours, that nobody bolhcrs with repression anymore because everyonc knows that to crack down on an artist is to promote him. Even Jesse Helms, not the swiftest intcllcct in tlie U.S. Senate, knows this, having pcrsonally raised Robert Mapplethorpe from obscurity. Performance artists who languishcd for years, underwhelming tiny audiences for praclically no moncy, have been reseued by a ringing denunciation from the religious right and-givcn a career.

Hic suppression of Solidarity Forever was the closest I had ever come to being censored, and I was not about to pass up my chancc. I sat down and fired off an indignant letter about tlie meaning of Labor Day, faxcd it to Chicago and was thinking how to proceed further (WRITER PLANS SING-1N; POLICE CHIEF THREATENS ARRESTS; MAYOR PLEADS FOR CALM), and it was lovely to contciTiplatc. I mentioned the Solidarity affair to a woman friend, and she threw her arms around me and told me she admired mc. This is not an everyday occurrence in my lifc.

Hic very next day the sponsor called up and said, "Fine. We'll print the lyrics if thafs what you want" and my balloon went pflHfffTFft. I did the concert, and tlie words to Solidarity Forever werc there in tlie program, and the audiencc sang all four vcrses lustily, including, "They have taken untold millions that they never toiled to carn./ But without our brain and musclc, not a single wheel can tum./ Wc can break their haughty power, gain our freedom, when wc learn/ That the union makes us strong."

Tliat was that. I camc home, and the next day I glanccd at the fax I had sent to the sponsor. Tlie tonę of self-righteousness was a little mortifying. Morę than a little. When you wiitc a sanctimonious letter, it is hard to kccp it under control; there is a tcndcncy to risc to indeccnt hoights of piety. You don't simply argue the facts at band, you rise in defense of godliness and decency and the First Amendment and opprcssed peoples everywhcrc. Hien, six weeks later, a heavy-set woman jabs her finger at you and accuses you of having filchcd $3.79 worth of gas and says it in a shrill voicc so that a woman filling up her van at a ncarby gas pump hears it and looks your way and thinks, "That poor man. I hope he gets some counseling before it's too late."