I'm Out of Gas

Be there by 10:15AM.  I can handle that.  It’s a twenty-minute ride.  I’ll give myself thirty.  But something always happens in the last minute before you need to go and I took a call which set me back five minutes by the time I’d disposed of it.  And behind the wheel I’m going faster on streets I’d normally be mindful of speed limits on.  This guy and then another guy are only adhering to the posted limits, but they drive me batty as we plod along.  In Highland I finally have two lanes and, as I told myself I’d do, I ring my mom as I turn up on to the approach to the Mid-Hudson bridge and let her know that I’ll be there in five minutes. 

I catch the proper lane through the tolls and seem fixated on this guy in a red car I’d left behind as to which lane he’s moving into in my rear view.  And, abruptly the car stops.  There’s no more power for the breaks or the steering.  No more fuel for acceleration.  But I have velocity as I’m on the steep incline that swings down to the bridge itself.  It’s clear that, although there hasn't been any proper warning that I can discern, I’m out of gas and I’m gonna need to get off to the other lane and the shoulder soon. 

As the old Buzzcocks song says, I feel “Sixteen Again” as I call my mom and explain sheepishly what it is I’ve done.  That will mess up their morning.  And for me, I’ve got to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.  I don’t have AAA.  I’ll have to find a roadside repair company to bring me some gas.  How do you search for what I need?  I’m in Highland, so I type in “Highland Auto” and soon I’m speaking with someone from Highland Auto who abruptly asks me: “Who are you?”  I get about seven words into a reply and he cuts me off and says: “We don’t do roadside” and hangs up.  Nor does the next guy, but he directs me to someone who does. 

Off to the side are the tall obsidian shelf of stone that still bears the drill marks of shafts the dug seventy-five years ago so they could drop dynamite in and blow this mountain apart, to make way for the road.  I knew it would only be a matter of time and soon the New York State Police trooper’s lights are flashing, but not for me.  They’ve pulled some other fella over just behind me.  My guy from Erichson Auto arrives soon and he promptly deposits a gallon or two of life-giving fuel into the car and takes my card to swipe for the most expensive fuel-up I’ve ever confronted.  We make small talk and he explains that one time, he’s actually ran out of fuel on the bridge itself in a repair truck no less.  Boy did he feel stupid.  And this make me feel much better than it ought to.  For that comment alone, I make sure I tip this fella over and above the unfortunate fee. 

Tuesday, 09/10/19