A
few days ago, I pulled into the Pembroke station because my gas gauge was
reading below a quarter of a tank. I could see a guy inside the station and a
mechanic working on a car, but no one came out. So I sat at the pump a while
longer. Still, no one came out. Another car pulled in next to me. We both waited.
Finally, the other driver got impatient and laid on his horn. No one
acknowledged him.
Admitting
defeat, we both gave up and drove off.
I
couldn’t help but think about the old days when all gas stations had a little
hose-type of thing that, when a car ran over it, would ring inside the station
and alert the employee that someone was at the pump. My dad, whenever he became
impatient, used to back up and run over that hose again and again until someone
finally came out – usually irritated enough by then to clobber him with some
heavy mechanical tool.
So
on my way to Concord the next day, I once again stopped at the station. This
time, the gas pumps had bags covering them. I didn’t have to be a genius to
realize I was out of luck. Yet, I still sat at the pump, staring at it and
willing the hose to magically leap off its perch and fill my tank for me.
By
then, my car’s noisy little “low fuel” alarm was sounding and blinking.
Frowning at the dashboard, I did what I felt was the only logical thing to do
under the circumstances: I ignored it and still went shopping. I remembered
someone once telling me I could go another 20 miles after the alarm sounded, so
I wasn’t too concerned. And besides that, I had an urgent craving for World
Table brand chocolate-mint cookie thins, which are to die for (and available
exclusively at Walmart), so I was willing to take the risk.
It
was only when I was headed back home from Concord in the dark that I began to
worry. The front seat of my car was piled high with groceries and my back seat
was piled high with my two rottweilers.
My gas gauge’s needle was pegged on “E”. What, I wondered, would happen if I ran out of gas and had to sit
around for ages waiting for roadside service to bring me gas? I was pretty sure
the rottweilers would overtake me and eat all of the groceries…including the
paper products.
I
found myself wishing New Hampshire could be like Oregon, where it’s illegal to
pump your own gas – probably because they don’t want dummies like me squirting
gas everywhere but into the tank.
I
was about eight miles from home when I realized I soon would be on Deerfield
Road – one of the darkest, curviest, hilliest and spookiest roads in the state
at night. Even worse, places to pull over on it are really scarce, unless you
want your car to become intimate with a tree.
Panic
suddenly set in. I made a sharp turn
into the lot of the convenience store on Route 28 and pulled up to one of the
pumps. I then got out of my car and stared at the pump as if it were an alien
being that had just been beamed down from another planet.
At
that moment, another car pulled in next to me.
I practically attacked the guy when he stepped out.
“Can
you do me a huge favor and show me how to put gas in my car?” I asked him.
“I’ve never done this before!”
The
look he gave me clearly told me he thought I was the one who’d been beamed down
from another planet.
Not
looking very pleased, he walked over to show me what to do. And at that precise
moment, my two dogs, thinking he probably was the Boston Strangler’s long-lost nephew who was about to wrap the
gas hose around my neck, viciously barked, growled and lunged at the car’s
windows.
The
guy jumped back a few feet and decided to point at the pump from a
distance. I had no clue what he was
pointing at. I mean, it could have been the windshield squeegee hanging there,
for all I knew. Finally he said, “You’ll do just fine,” and rushed back to his
own car.
I
glared at my two dogs.
Becoming
more and more desperate, I ventured into the store and threw myself at the
mercy of the clerk.
“I’m
in urgent need of gas and I have no clue how to pump my own because I always go
to full-serve!” I practically shouted at her. From behind me came a calm voice.
“Don’t worry, sweetie, just let me cash out my stuff and I’ll help you.”
I
turned around to see a female customer who probably was young enough to be my
daughter, smiling at me. I felt like
grabbing her and hugging her.
Sure
enough, she went out to my car, explained step by step what she was doing, and
filled the tank. And my dogs were
perfect little angels the entire time, probably because I was giving them my
best “scare this one away and I swear I will hold your favorite squeaky toy
hostage!” look.
“There
you go!” she said, hanging up the hose and neatly clicking my gas cap back into
place. “Now you’ll know what to do next time!”
No,
I won’t. I forgot to take notes.
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