To Fill a Gas Tank
I left my car and didn't bother turning it off. I would only be talking for a few minutes.
As I walked over to the car of the government official who met me alongside the road that afternoon, I laughed in spite of myself. This was just like the movies. A secret meeting along a back road between a newspaper reporter and someone in local government who wanted to remain anonymous.
The cloak-and-dagger meeting lasted a little longer than I had expected. The official detailed several safety violations committed by a local employer. He wasn't in a position to confront them directly, his job was to promote the local economy, to help those who provided jobs to the community. But he felt he couldn't stay silent, hence he called me and asked to meet. I dutifully listened and took a thick manila office envelope full of papers. I would investigate the claims and try to verify them independently.
I stepped back into the cold, immediately anxious to get in my warm car and head back to the office. But my car was no longer running. I walked around to the driver's side and slipped on the patch of ice near the back tire, grabbing the car to steady myself. I got in and looked at the gauge. Sure enough I was out of gas.
It was only a matter of luck that I had taken the office cell phone with me, I didn't have one of my own. I fumbled with it, dialing the number for the paper. I reached the editor and told him of my predicament. The staff photographer was out on assignment, he would come and collect me when he finished.
My immediate need was to get a gas jug to put some fuel in, I didn't own one. We went to the store and I grabbed the first one I could find without inspecting it. This would be the second mistake I made that day.
I purchased a few gallons of gasoline at a nearby gas station and we back to my car. Feeling that the situation was largely resolved, I sent the photographer on his way. Mistake number three.
The jug I bought did not have the correct size nozzle to fit into the gas tank. It was made for lawn equipment, there was no way to get the gas into the car. I would have to suffer the embarrassment of calling for help again. Then I had an idea.
Most of the time my propensity for collecting trash in my car was a nuisance, but today it would serve me well. I grabbed the multi-tool that I always kept in my glove compartment and an empty soda bottle. I was going to fashion a funnel out of it.
At first, it did not go well. The end of the soda bottle was just a little too big to effectively fit into the gas tank. I spilled gasoline everywhere.
I took another bottle and cut a plastic strip, rolling it into a cone that I fit inside the other bottle. Now I had a working funnel, I beamed with pride at my ingenuity. I took the remaining gas and emptied it into the car, figuring I had gotten through the ordeal relatively unscathed. It was not to be.
The gasoline I spilled had ran onto the ice near the back of the car, the same ice that had nearly felled me before. My feet went out from under me, and the gas can went into the air. I could not reach the side of the car in time. I fell hard to the ground and rolled down a small embankment.
Luckily, there was no one around to see what happened. I could salvage my pride. Except I was now covered in dirt, and worse yet, I had fallen in the spilled gasoline, which I didn't immediately notice.
I turned the key and prayed. The car sputtered. Then I tried again. Nothing. One last time. It roared to life.
I drove to the nearest gas station and put more gasoline in it immediately, gathering a few funny looks as I went inside the station to pay. A man in a shirt and tie, dirty and smelling like gasoline. I still hadn't noticed the smell, I was desensitized to it from smelling it when I spilled it earlier.
The next stop was to finally return to the office, explain the reason for the secret meeting and make some phone calls.
I can only describe my entrance to the office as being not unlike one of those times in a Western movie where the stranger pushes open the saloon door and everyone gawks.
"Jesus, what happened to you?!" asked the circulation manager as I breezed in from my adventure.
"I had a little mishap," I said sheepishly. Another head poked up over a cubicle.
"You smell like gasoline!" one of the reporters said. There was no keeping it a secret. I had to tell the whole tale in detail to an amused office. I was dispatched back to my house for a shower and a fresh change of clothes.
To this day, this remains the one and only time I have ever ran out of gas.
As I walked over to the car of the government official who met me alongside the road that afternoon, I laughed in spite of myself. This was just like the movies. A secret meeting along a back road between a newspaper reporter and someone in local government who wanted to remain anonymous.
The cloak-and-dagger meeting lasted a little longer than I had expected. The official detailed several safety violations committed by a local employer. He wasn't in a position to confront them directly, his job was to promote the local economy, to help those who provided jobs to the community. But he felt he couldn't stay silent, hence he called me and asked to meet. I dutifully listened and took a thick manila office envelope full of papers. I would investigate the claims and try to verify them independently.
I stepped back into the cold, immediately anxious to get in my warm car and head back to the office. But my car was no longer running. I walked around to the driver's side and slipped on the patch of ice near the back tire, grabbing the car to steady myself. I got in and looked at the gauge. Sure enough I was out of gas.
It was only a matter of luck that I had taken the office cell phone with me, I didn't have one of my own. I fumbled with it, dialing the number for the paper. I reached the editor and told him of my predicament. The staff photographer was out on assignment, he would come and collect me when he finished.
My immediate need was to get a gas jug to put some fuel in, I didn't own one. We went to the store and I grabbed the first one I could find without inspecting it. This would be the second mistake I made that day.
I purchased a few gallons of gasoline at a nearby gas station and we back to my car. Feeling that the situation was largely resolved, I sent the photographer on his way. Mistake number three.
The jug I bought did not have the correct size nozzle to fit into the gas tank. It was made for lawn equipment, there was no way to get the gas into the car. I would have to suffer the embarrassment of calling for help again. Then I had an idea.
Most of the time my propensity for collecting trash in my car was a nuisance, but today it would serve me well. I grabbed the multi-tool that I always kept in my glove compartment and an empty soda bottle. I was going to fashion a funnel out of it.
At first, it did not go well. The end of the soda bottle was just a little too big to effectively fit into the gas tank. I spilled gasoline everywhere.
I took another bottle and cut a plastic strip, rolling it into a cone that I fit inside the other bottle. Now I had a working funnel, I beamed with pride at my ingenuity. I took the remaining gas and emptied it into the car, figuring I had gotten through the ordeal relatively unscathed. It was not to be.
The gasoline I spilled had ran onto the ice near the back of the car, the same ice that had nearly felled me before. My feet went out from under me, and the gas can went into the air. I could not reach the side of the car in time. I fell hard to the ground and rolled down a small embankment.
Luckily, there was no one around to see what happened. I could salvage my pride. Except I was now covered in dirt, and worse yet, I had fallen in the spilled gasoline, which I didn't immediately notice.
I turned the key and prayed. The car sputtered. Then I tried again. Nothing. One last time. It roared to life.
I drove to the nearest gas station and put more gasoline in it immediately, gathering a few funny looks as I went inside the station to pay. A man in a shirt and tie, dirty and smelling like gasoline. I still hadn't noticed the smell, I was desensitized to it from smelling it when I spilled it earlier.
The next stop was to finally return to the office, explain the reason for the secret meeting and make some phone calls.
I can only describe my entrance to the office as being not unlike one of those times in a Western movie where the stranger pushes open the saloon door and everyone gawks.
"Jesus, what happened to you?!" asked the circulation manager as I breezed in from my adventure.
"I had a little mishap," I said sheepishly. Another head poked up over a cubicle.
"You smell like gasoline!" one of the reporters said. There was no keeping it a secret. I had to tell the whole tale in detail to an amused office. I was dispatched back to my house for a shower and a fresh change of clothes.
To this day, this remains the one and only time I have ever ran out of gas.
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