Monday, May 21, 2007

Running out of gas is one of those hypotheticals that should remain exactly as such–an auto experience locked away for occasional rumination, never to roll off the lot and into the wild. It’s something on the list that should stay on the list and, wouldn’t you know it, I decided to cross it off my list recently, after a weekend of moving.

I have no excuses. Whatever moments of concern brought on by the fuel light were quickly vetoed by the knowledge that my tank harbored a secret reserve filled with enough gas to propel the vehicle another 10-15 miles, always another 10-15 miles, until modern engineering would prove otherwise. And prove it did. The dashboard went dark, power steering died, and I rolled into a Bank of America drive-through, simultaneously going and going nowhere.

Optimistically speaking, however, I learned a lot, such as when not to cross the street to get to the gas station, if you can help it. (Rush hour.) I also learned how to assemble a gas can. (Unscrew the cap, then hand to the attendant.) And the secret to filling the can, so it was revealed, is to avoid spraying gas all over your shoes. Most important of all, I’m storing the can where it has the most utility. (In my garage.)