Saturday, August 27, 2011

Bridget and the Red Gallon Can

I hate cars. Hate them.
Even Leigh, my carefree 96 Neon, cannot be considered my favorite item.
Now, I have even more reason not to like them. Namely: Gas gauges.

So today I was running errands. I went to the bank to make a deposit for 15 bracelets that I had to send to a woman in Brodhead, and then I walked across the square to mail said bracelets at the post office, leaving my car parked in front of my bank.
When I got back to the bank, and tried to turn on my car, it wouldn't work. It took 3 tries to get Leigh's engine to flip and then I was moving.
When I say I was moving, I mean I drove to the first stop sign, and then my car start to make this putt putt putt sound, and slow to a crawl.
I managed to get a few yards and find the nearest parking space-a handicapped space, thank you very much- before Leigh stopped dead in the middle of a busy square on a Farmer's Market Saturday, at which time I called my father.
He suggested that I was out of gas. I looked at my gas gauge: not quite empty, but I did need to fill up, so I figured I'd feel really stupid if that's the whole problem and I wasted $20 on a check-up and would then spend another $20 on gas. I decided to take his word for it.
After a call to the police department, explaining why they shouldn't give me a ticket for parking in a Handicapped space, I set off, on foot, for the BP station.
BP is not a long walk, but anyone who saw my Tweets would know that I was complaining because it was hot and it was August and I hate walking where cars can see me. When I got there, I grabbed an overly-expensive Red Gallon gas can and made my way to the counter, where a man eating a danish and drinking a coffee made a half-hearted attempt at either humor, or helpfulness. (I'm still not sure which, his mouth was too full.)
With my full Red Gallon Can, I walked the automotive Walk Of Shame back to my car, past people smoking on their porches who called out: "Out of gas?" to my back.
I didn't know how to use the gas can.
My mother showed up and proved equally worthless at using the gas can.
And then I remembered that I have friends at the Farmer's Market.
With a little help from an old man who knew a thing or two about cars back in his day, Leigh got a gallon of gas.
The next part is fun:
So the old man told me that I still needed a lot more gas, and that I ought to go back to BP and fill up, so upon his advice, I put in another $10 worth of gas.
And then I can't find my $10.
So now I have to call mom again, who doesn't answer her phone as a rule (I like that it's one of the 5 pillars of my mom's secret religion, not Islam, but Mumism), and after the 6th call, I ask her to buy my gas.
"Here's my key, there's my car." I say to the cashier at BP, who knows what a shitty day I'm having. "I'm gonna go find my mom to get money so I don't have to steal your gas."
Trekking back to find my mom's car, I find my money, which I still have, because I'm poor, and mom offered to pay.
Much love, best wishes, and PUT GAS IN YOUR CAR!!!!!

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