Cheap Gas and the Dancing Car

Old Car (Photo credit: KB35)

Before we cast ourselves adrift again on our second homeless stint, we gassed up after waiting for 20 minutes at the cheapest gas station in town. We played dodgems on the forecourt with cars, trucks and motorhomes – other cheapskates – before ending up behind an old boy in a rusty heap. When it was finally his turn, he shot forward to the pump nearly crashing head-on with an interloper sneaking in from the opposite direction.

In this credit and debit card society, he tottered through a tangled maze of cars and gas pumps to pre-pay with cash in the shop for his fill up. Upon returning to the pump his gas tank swallowed $60 in short order so he limped back to the shop to part with more money. I’m guessing he paid another $20 but the pump shut off after $10.32. Bored and impatient we watched him closely.

He staggered to the back of his car (the temperature was in the 90’s, positively roasting for Pacific Northwesterners) and pushed up and down on the trunk. This caused his car to dance on its sloppy suspension like a “funny car” (those redneck motors that pump up their suspensions and rock side to side and forward and back for absolutely no reason at all) but he seemed to unblock an air lock because he was then able to pump another $2.55 before lurching back to the trunk to make his car dance again for another $1.97 of gas to go in the tank.

After another couple of slow mo moves by the old boy and the car’s lively quick step he gave up and put the nozzle back in the pump. But he didn’t get back in his car. Oh no, he tottered back to the shop for his refund.

“Do you know how much change he went back for?” Jimmy sputtered as we catapulted to the pump to claim the old boy’s empty space when he finally drove off. “Ten cents!!!”  All the other things Jimmy said while we were waiting for Slow Mo and his boogying car have to remain off the record.

The “Wrong” Side

Homesick for my adopted country, England, I spent two weeks basking in glorious sunshine having left himself behind in his adopted country to contend with yet more torrential downpours. A daily occurrence on the Puget Sound he told me on the phone. Oh golly.

I was not allowed to pick up a rental car from Heathrow Airport on arrival after a night flight as my minder/usual travelling companion feared I would either circle London endlessly on the M25 or fall asleep at the wheel. Unable to defend myself I hopped on the tube.

After a day’s R & R from jet lag, I collected a teeny rental car and was completely flummoxed by a) a manual gearbox, b) a clutch, c) having to drive on the left again, d) sitting my bum so close to the road and e) an empty gas tank. I hadn’t touched a petrol/gas/diesel pump in over two years and the hand I usually had spare from not having to change gears had become accustomed to holding a cup of coffee.

Firing up disused neural pathways along with the engine, I successfully exited the rental car parking lot using an eleven point turn while pumping the clutch as though inflating an air bed. Had I been a fool to refuse the collision damage waiver to save a few pennies?

With intense concentration, I avoided all the other road users without a blast from their horns or angry hand gestures, sidled into a nearby petrol station on the correct side of the pump (ha!), filled the tank and drove up to the kiosk to pay. I felt I had achieved a major feat. Smiling triumphantly, debit card in hand, I was asked “Which pump?”

“What?”

“Pump number?”

“Oh. I don’t know.” Deflated and much to the chagrin of the drivers in the queue of cars behind me, I squeezed out of the car having neatly pulled up an arm’s length from the kiosk so I could reach the window. I winced at the looks of pure hostility of the DRIVERS IN A HURRY. Three was my number and I slunk back to the car.

It’s shocking how I’d allowed myself to coast into blond tag-along mode. Having slowly and happily let my independence slip away over the years, I had to give myself a mental slap and take responsibility for myself for at least two weeks. Once that was accomplished, I enjoyed being responsible only for myself. Meals when I was hungry instead of at mealtime, trashy TV at full volume, junk food with no looks of disapproval, shopping more than was good for my wallet and a curious feeling of liberation when stepping out of the door without telling anyone where I was going or when I’d be back.

Driving on the wrong side soon became the right side even though it was the left side. And driving on the right when I returned to the States would then feel wrong even though it was right.

Not me but this is how I felt. I fell down into the rental car and climbed up out it, more used to climbing up into our SUV and falling out of it!