Running on fumes
Tuesday, August 8th, 2000I am amazed that my car is still pushing forward with the fuel gauge lounging on the red “no-no” square. I passed the last gas station a thousand memories back and I start to grow worried. I was in the desert, somewhere between Amarillo and the New Mexico border.
The day could not have started any better, mozarella and tomato omellette, two slices of crispy, melt-in-your-mouth bacon, sauteed potato cubes with its skin still on, a slice of white bread with grape jelly and a cup of coffee– 4 packs of sugar. The quaint little diner could not have sat more than 15 people. 15 seats in the house would probably accomodate the whole county.
There wasn’t a cloud in the sky for as far as my eyes could see, even if I had sat on the tallest cactus plant. The air was as still as a person in a day dream and I felt all alone, serene almost, driving down this long, rolling, winding stretch of parched land. It was nice feeling what I was feeling that late morning, right until I realized I was running on fumes. It was a comfort though, knowing that I could probably hitch a ride from one of the truck drivers that frequented this route to escape the monotony of the freeway. Or I could have hitched a ride from Thom who was never more than a quarter mile behind me. But then I drew my vehicle over a hill and discovered that neither was necessary. Sitting pretty at the junction of another road that crossed the one we were on–both leading to nowhere– was a gas station. I freed my gear and let my car glide to a stop beside a pump.
Gas prices were getting steeper as we drew closer to California. The second best feeling in the world was when I squeezed the pump trigger and felt the surge of gasoline fighting to find its way out and into its new home. The best feeling in the world was getting back on the road, a full tank of gas, the world at my feet.
Friday evenings.
