Running out of Gas

Running Out of Gas

Leah Pettit

Period 2

Mr. Ellis

My headlights pierced through the otherwise pitch dark night... it was just my luck to be stranded in a stretch of road that was void of streetlamps. Like a racehorse that had run out of steam from being ridden for too long, my noble steed – my blue 1987 Toyota pickup – was quiet in defeat; it had run out of gas.

After dialing my house, and learning what triple-A was for, I did the only thing I could do: sat back, locked my doors, and turned up my radio. If there was anything threatening outside my car, I didn’t want to know about it. Simply knowing that I was within 15 feet of a ravine shrouded with mystery – or was it bushes?- was enough to keep me rooted to my seat.

A few pairs of lonely headlights passed; no one seemed to care much about the blue truck parked with its headlights on. Well, one person: a police officer. Yes, a car pulled up behind me, and when the driver’s side door opened my heart skipped a beat – what was this person planning on doing? It was only when I saw the uniform that I felt, for the first time in the presence of an officer, relief. I rolled down my window, and the kind officer shined a not-so-kind light in my face. After a few questions, a few unwanted tears, and a reassurance, Officer Dean offered to stay with me until either triple-A or my parents showed up. I accepted his offer, and settled in for what I thought was going to be a ten minute wait.

Half an hour later my parents showed up, in all of their pajama’d glory. Officer Dean left, with only one “you should be more careful”. A full hour later, a big greasy man with a big greasy truck pulled up beside my now dwarfish looking pickup. He said he worked for triple-A, so, against my better judgment, I opened my gas tank. Weren’t repair men supposed to be young, attractive, and look nice in white shirts, like in the movies? This man had yellowing fingernails and teeth, bad breath, and enough chest hair to satisfy all the rogaine users in the world. Despite my distrust, he did fill my gas tank with enough gas to get me to the nearest gas station, and with a toothy goodbye and a final glance at the neckline of my shirt, he and his “must-be-compensating-for-something” truck were gone. Following  a quick fuel-up and a lecture from my parents, I felt like I had run out of gas.