Oringinally posted July 3, 2005.
If you read the comments you will know that I did not accomplish any of the things I wanted to do. Fell asleep and woke up somewheres around 5:30pm. Then fucked around on the computer and the internet from about 6p to 8p trying to figure out how to post a recorded message. I then finally got my S together and got on the road. Even though I was running late I did not go straight to work. Nope, I had to feed my tummy first. By the time I got on to the expressway it was about 8:30pm, and I figured I would be about 15 minutes late for work. No such luck.
9:04pm My car started to shudder a little and I realized horror of all horrors, I had run out of gas. The engine was still running but it would not go any faster no matter how hard I pushed on the gas pedal. Then I saw the tachometer drop to zero and I knew the engine had died. I was now down to about 60mph and dropping. I put on my flashers and moved onto the shoulder only to remember that there was one of those “wake up strips” on the side of the road. You know, those ridged bumps put there so when you fall asleep and start to ride off the road your tires make an annoyingly loud “BRRRRRRRPPPP” sound so as to wake you the fuck up before you kill yourself and have to explain to St. Peter why you are such a moron that you fell asleep behind the wheel and ran off the road. Speaking of morons behind the wheel, I had run out of gas and was now on the shoulder trying to avoid the strip that was slowing down my already grinding to a halt car on one side “BRRRRRRRPPPP”, and the edge of the pavement that gave way to grass and the ever ominous ditch on the other.
9:05pm I was able to coast almost a mile before coming to a complete stop. So I was now out of gas, late for work and stuck on the side of the interstate 11 mile from work and 1 mile from the next exit. So I grabbed my phone and car keys, got out of my car, and popped the truck to get my gas can. That was not there. Bastards. I had taken my gas can out of my old car when it died but apparently had neglected to move it in to the new car. I slammed the trunk closed and began to move on down the road.
9:07pm I had just dialed work and was just starting to explain what an idiot I am when a car slowed down, pulled on to the shoulder and stopped. So I quickly got off the phone with work, although I was very tempted to give my coworker the license plate number of the car, on the off chance that I was never heard from again. My instincts told me to do this but my inner need to always be polite talked me out of it. How would it look to the occupants of the car if I stopped 7ft from the car and started staring at the license plate? This is how I will end up dead someday. Because I didn’t want to offend some crazed serial killer. I did however give the car a wide bearth as I walked around the side of the car to be even with the front door. It was a relatively new car and it turned out to be a young Hispanic couple. Mid to late twenties, he may have been early thirties but she looked younger than him. I spent most of the time looking at the back of his head. She was shorter and her head did not come up above the head rest. He was very pleasant and talkative. It was very obvious that she did not speak at all the entire way to the gas station. She had given me a small polite smile when I had gotten into the car. She gave me a much bigger polite smile as I got out of the car.
I went into the GasCity and bought a gas can for $3.99, and I told the woman to charge me for a gallon of gas while she was at it, pump of her choice. She looked at me like I had a third eye. She then looked at her coworker, who apparently had some common sense and knew exactly what I meant. Girl #2 looked over my shoulder out the window and said put it on Pump #8. Girl #1 now giving Girl # 2 the third eye look says how. “2.29” was the reply. “2.29?” Yes. “On pump #8?” Yes. Where do they find these people? So I now have my gas can and change and walk back outside to get my gas and am greeted by Barry White’s “Can’t get enough of your love” blaring on the speakers out side for the entertainment and enjoyment of all pumping gas. I made me laugh and want to bust out into to a dance montage Ally McBeal style.
9:22pm I had gotten my 0.996 gallons of gas (even at a bajillion dollars a gallon, they still cheat you out of a little bit), crossed the six lane street, and had walked along the 1 foot shoulder and had made it back to the on ramp, actually the off ramp of the expressway with out being killed. So to celebrate I called the only person who could appreciate what a big dork I really am, That Drunk Girl. She found it very amusing. It set off a very fine conversation about the stupid things we have done. Like the quite hilarious drunk message she sent me the other night. (I still hope to post that). It helped the time pass quickly. I was soon at my car. She let me go so I could stop spilling gas on myself and she could change for the Bar-B-Que she was going to. Five hours earlier in Hawaii you know.
9:36 Gas in car. Me in the car. And now back at the top of the off ramp for the third time, going back to the gas station to fill up my tank. This time I paid at the pump, so I wouldn't have to look at the “I will never be anything but a gas station attendant” woman.
9:44 Tank completely full and in the turn lane to get back on the expressway. The song at the gas station was funny again but I can remember what it was. If I wasn’t frustrated and late for work I probably would have written it down in my PDA.
10:01pm Pulled into the parking lot at work. Instead of being fifteen minutes late (OK, twenty minutes late) I was a hour late. And I still needed to shave.
I got a lot of shit from people at work. Some people thought I had a flat tire. Now there is the telephone game in full effect for you. Others had started guessing at why I was really late. The most popular theory was that I got caught with a hooker in my car. One friend came to my defense saying I would have never gotten caught. Friends, gotta love ‘em.
Until then enjoy the holiday, and stay out of jail. I ain’t got the bail money.