Fortunately for all involved, I was only about a half mile away from the gas station when I ran out of gas on Monday morning.
“I’ve never run out of gas,” my wife, Hailey, said as she was driving en route with our half-empty, two-gallon gas can in the van.
“Me neither,” I said. I flashed my hazards, stopped dead in the turn lane to Barrister, off Belle Terre Parkway, and I grinned sheepishly while waving a truck full of muscular construction guys around me.
A Citizens Observer Patrol car pulled up and asked if anything was the matter.
“My wife’s coming to rescue me,” I said, unable to look him in the eye.
Finally, she arrived. I retrieved the gas can, about the size of my son’s lunch box, and tried to put enough gas in the tank to get me at least a mile down the road. But it wasn’t working. The nozzle was too short. It worked great for a lawn mower, but I couldn’t tilt the can high enough to pour anything into my car’s tank.
I looked in the van for something expendable that could be used as a McGyver-esque siphon, not that I’ve ever used a siphon before, either.
Hailey was unreadable behind her sunglasses, but I understood from the rest of her facial expression that I was on my own from here.
Then, I decided the word of God could help me. My kids’ church magazine was lying between two seats, so I rolled it up like a funnel and poured the rest of the gas through it and into the tank. Yesss!
Still no reaction from Hailey, but I thought, I’ll get her back by writing about her in the newspaper.
Her van was also low on gas, so she followed me to the gas station. She was punching in the zip code, but something wasn’t working. So I dumped the soaking magazine in the trash and moseyed over.
“Want me to take a look?” I asked. “I’m pretty good with cars.”