Out Of Gas

January 12, 2009 (Written on the back of an atlas while waiting for someone to come for me)

Stuck on I-80. At least the radio is good. Surfin’ USA plays with Big Lar and “the greatest hits ever made” on 106.1, every Sunday afternoon. Now it’s E.L.O. with Don’t Bring Me Down. Fitting. . . though it seems I’m filling in for the part of Bruce. Minutes earlier I was tapping my toes to Here Comes The Sun as I passed by the gas stations of Anawan, Ill., six miles back from here. Sad part is that I ran out of gas once already back before that. I came to a rolling stop . . .

(At this point my help arrives, dispatched by my friend Tyler who I was going to pick up. I’ll continue, though the telling will be different a day later in the comfort of warm home)

The first time I came to a rolling stop at a farm house along Henry Co. Hwy. 5, clean out of gas. Embarrassment ensued. “Jesus man,” I thought. “What kind of junior varsity shit is this?” Not since I was in high school have I ran out, but even then it was with a slight degree of purpose; a bit of youthful naivety in attempting to defy the readings of my gauges. But this time around I had no idea what was happening as the RPM reading sank low and all signs were pointing to This Ride is Over. Damn. So now, sitting still in my mom’s Chevy Blazer, I thought through my options. One: call my folks and have them deliver me from my own stupidity. No way. I had just finished traveling through Mexico for two weeks and now I’m going to call my dad and say that I couldn’t make it out of Henry County, Illinois? Think again. Two: walk to somewhere that has gas, like the farmhouse in front of me.

Naturally I was under dressed for walking through the snow, but the cold can do wonders for your conscious. I looked around for signs of a external gas tank like the one on my grandfather’s farm. There was a barn and some outbuildings, fresh tracks on the driveway. When I knocked, the old man came to the door and greeted me. “Hello sir, I’m from Galva on my way to Princeton and I have run out of gas. Could you help me?” He looked past my shoulder, out where the green SUV was sitting at the end of his drive. “Sure, I think I’ve got some gas.” I waited outside while he opened the garage door and handed me a five-gallon jug of the go-go juice I so desperately needed. I thought to myself about the idea of being prepared, how that was my oath as an Eagle scout and how many times I had forsaken it.

Before I headed back to bring life to my dead horse, the old farmer said, “put in as much as you’ll need to get you there.” I was beaming with gratitude. His eyes seemed fixed on something else. His weathered face bore deep longitudinal lines that accentuated the bend in his hunched frame. He wore red suspenders under a blue denim coat that matched his eyes perfectly.

There was a long bolt stuck in the end of the spout of the gas can. It felt cold on my hands, which were beginning to lack feeling. I began to pour in the gas wondering how I would repay him. I had no cash on me. I knew that he wouldn’t care about that, but I couldn’t help feeling like some kind of sorry lackey. I stopped pouring. Then started again. Just a little more to get me to Atkinson. My mind was whirling with modern guilt – as if I had committed some error that would be the subject of a Larry David episode.

I set the gas can down in his garage. It was lighter by at least a gallon. He laughed when I told him that I had no money. “That’s alright, just glad I could help,” he said. “My name is Auggie and this is my farm.”

–

I suppose it’d be good to visit Auggie in Illinois this time around. Give him some candy and a thank you. There’s another part to this story, about how the gas station was out of gas and I drove right by the only other place that had some, but another time.