Stalling for Dimes

I'd never been so happy to be at a Roxbury gas station. In one fell swoop, I released all the pressures of the entire day from my lungs, popped the cap and turned to face the familiar concrete island.

Press here for credit. Press here for debit.

Debit please, thank you!

Now the next step would have been to reach for my wallet which, since my having entered the working world, has taken up residence in my back left pocket. And reach for it I did, only to find to my soul-sinking surprise that it wasn't currently at home. Its whereabouts wasn't an immediate concern, as it probably should have been. My main concern lay in two areas:

1) I just pulled into a gas station and am about to leave again without having performed any sort of transaction. That's embarrassing.

2) I may in fact not make it home on what fumes I had left in the 'ol g-tank (hollow clang).

You see, I was completely devoid of any fuel at this point. It had been my intention to swing by the local Shell during my lunch break earlier. But that idea somehow got lost in whatever activity I had been engaged in at the time, work or not. And if you know me, it was most likely not. Even upon reuniting with my vehicle for the commute home, I saw the gauge E-ing at me. And within the fifteen minutes it takes for me to pass a station on the way, I had completely forgotten about it. It was only until the Vibe she sputtered a bit more than usual on the pickup did I remember. "Oh fuck," I believe was my response to no one. The rest of the ride to fabulous Roxbury consisted mainly off easing on and off the gas, staying under 25 when possible and a racing heart at each worsening enginey burp. Miraculously, she lasted until I could sidle off at Exit 18 and float into the Mobile-McDonalds complex.

But let's get something straight: this whole situation isn't completely my fault. There's no audio cue in the Vibarino signaling "I'm about to lose my shit because my straw is gurgling". Just a quiet yellow light and a defeated looking gauge meter. My last car, the trusty Cavalier (apply named Cavalier), let you KNOW. You'd get all that was mentioned previously with a pulse-increasing DONG to boot. And God help you if you tried squeezing out a Cleveland Steamer from the Cav's tank, because unlike my current transport, it would just flat out give up. Like dead-stall-on-the-highway-you'd-better-pull-into-this-uphill-off-ramp-immediately-with-no-power-steering-and-manage-to-stay-out-of-the-way-of-everyone-who-now-thinks-you're-an-asshole give up.

Even despite the warning system seemingly designed by the national weather service though, I must have run out of gas in that car at least five times. It was just the finality of it. Driving along then suddenly BOOM! I'm all done. See, I'd always try squeezing out just a little more than I should have. Sometimes after a stall I could get her started again. Other times she wasn't having it. I even started carting around a few silly red gas cans in the back officially making running out of gas seem like more of an occurrence than food shopping to the unknowing passerby. But since then I done shot that horse.

I know, it's idiotic. And I realize that as an independent adult my basic responsibilities are to pay the bills, clean up after myself, and make sure I don't run out of frigging gas. It's a retarded thing. But then again, my life has been fraught with retarded things.

And so, we join our hero back in Roxbury, if there ever was one in such a place. I slipped back into the Vibe, wide-eyed and mulling over options with a panic I'm all too conversant with. There weren't many. In fact there was just one: drive home with fingers crossed.

Oh, Vibe. She was going to be so pissed at me and she didn't even know it yet.

"Oh, a gas station! Great, I'll just take a rest while he puts in the usual 20 bucks...All right, ready to roll! Hey what the--hey you forgot--I'm still EMPTY you moron! Oh nooooo!"

That's what I imagined going through my car's mind as we pulled away from her oasis. It's a problem when your own car thinks you're a moron. Or really when you're anthropomorphizing your own car and making it call you a moron.

Regardless, I sat hunched over the wheel, analyzing every shift and bump I took for the next fifteen minutes. Sitting at red lights was complete torture, as it was unclear if the next acceleration would be her last. Occasionally she'd doze off, but then find a surge from somewhere in the depths and lurch ahead steadily for another few minutes. I coasted around turns, took full advantage of downhills and climbed the ups with upsetting slowness. I was that driver with a parade of other drivers behind him all thinking, "What is this, a PARADE!?"

I came to one last uphill battle. After that it was all on the down. I was maybe several hundred yards to home when I decided it was in my best interest to break the law and turn down a one-way. It's fine, I live here. There's never anyone driving down this street. Well, except this guy.

Hi, thanks, sorry.

All in the face of an obvious "What the hell are you doing, idiot!" greeting through the glass. She coughed once more turning onto Plain Street, finally passing out as I turned the key to off. I sat momentarily, fully amazed at both my stupidity and my gray girl of a hatchback.

Without a wallet to my name, I now had to scour the house for at least nine dollars. Easier said than done, because I failed to find more than several quarters. Cut to a few hours later. I had managed a meal fit for a court jester and some other bullshit in the meantime, but I knew my window of oil opportunity was closing. I resorted to pulling out the step stool and reaching for one of those Don't-You-Dare-Use-This credit cards. A justifiable emergency, yes?

Starting her back up was a thrill in itself. She rolled over about sixteen times before finally catching. And with a renewed sense of uncertainty, we puttered down the street and around the corner. Once she wholly died on me. I flashed back to Cavalier momentarily, having to fight unfamiliar resistance to turn her to the side of the road. She started again, but I considered it her last warning shot. Stopped at the longest light in the neighborhood, the beacon of Gondor lay just tens of yards away still lit and serving motorists at quarter to eleven. As if she herself saw the glowing yellow hope just ahead, my Vibe she held, and upon the eagerly anticipated switch from red to green, let me ease her across the three lanes of empty traffic. Pulling underneath the steel canopy, Amex in hand, I'm pretty sure I had a dumb smirk on my face, leaving the guy at the pump across from me wondering why in hell I was so happy about paying for gas.

Press here for credit.

I read no further. Swiping a credit card never felt more relieving. And with that, and seemingly all the gasoline in the world to burn, we raced up the highway ramp toward the city we'd driven through a hundred times before.

As for today, my wallet is still no where to be found. And I'm kind of ok with it. For now.