My parents have this awesome game they play, it’s called
NEVER EVER STOP FOR GAS
Interestingly, the only loser of the game is me and I never committed to playing. Between the two of them they harbor 5 cars, none of which ever contains more than a teaspoon of gas.
I have been spending more time in my hometown because of the hot Urologist. (More on that later) So I am having to borrow one of the cars to transport myself about town. My presence ensures that the parentals are even LESS inclined to fill up. No matter which car I get into, it’s gas free.
Last night, I got into vehicle #1 and took off to meet the Urologist. 20 yards out of the driveway, I glanced at the gauge. Dead empty. Annoyed, I spun the car around, deposited it back in the garage, and boarded vehicle #2. Same thing. Furious, I flung the door open to vehicle #3. You see where this is going, right? I climb into vehicle #4. (Vehicle #5 is a stick shift and much to Dad’s chagrin I never learned to drive it. I am now wondering if he has left all cars on empty as a means to force me to learn in a baptism by fire.) Vehicle #4 is one spit above empty. I get in, cursing my parents, and begin to drive toward the gas station. It’s low but I’ll make it.
And then, because I don’t attend church, the miles begin to tick down. Rapidly. By the time I get a visual on the BP, I have sweated through my fancy date blouse and the car registers 1 mile til empty. I am having chest pains when my phone rings. It’s Dad.
“Whatcha doing??” says Dr. Chipper.
“I’m going to prison,” I tell him.
“Why?!” he asks
“Because I’m going to kill you.”
I call the Urologist, explain nothing, and tell him I will be 45 minutes late. I drive home, change into fancy date blouse volume two, and return to the garage.
The car I just gassed up is gone. As I am trying to process how a car simply vanishes, Diane calls. She tells me she is en route to the church for choir practice.
I suggested she spend the night in a safe place.