On Empty

"Mom, I ran out of gas just two blocks from home."
"Can you walk home? "

"I am tired and I want to go to bed."

"Yes, it feels particularly good in bed. Where I am. What's the posiiton of the car? Can you walk home?"

"Well, actually, I am about eight blocks from home."

Well, sure. All facts must be dragged out of them and so in the middle of the night I venture to a gas station, buy a plastic tank, and fill it with a couple of gallons of gas. Two men ask me if I had run out. It felt good to be able to say, "No, not me. My daughter." First because it wasn't me, and second because it reminded me that I was on a rescue mission, no matter how dimwitted a rescue mission it was.

I get to her car, keep mine running so it would be warm inside when I got done, and in below-freezing temperatures start to fumble with a pour device that I couldn't quite see. It did not cooperate. Gas slowly trickled down my best ski coat, and less then best pants and sneakers. My now slippery hands could not unscrew the cap to fix whatever I had done wrong, so I started to curse quietly, squatting down low at the back end of her little compact. A driver watched me from his seat in a stretch limonsine parked far across the boulevard and outside a large, dark building. I decided the hell with it. I would suffer the spillage and keep the flow nozzle open by letting my right index finger act as the gas tank opening, forcing the nozzle to release gas into the tank. The only way to effectively do this, however, was to jam the nozzle and my finger up against the car's gas tank opening wth the full weight of my body. For some reason, the tank opening itself didn't cut it. Only a finger locked and pinched in pain would work. Everything got wet and cold, but then I did what I usually do whenever what I want to most is whine: I thought about farmers and winter soldiers and sucked it up.

A guy in his late twenties suddenly appeared at my elbow and said, "Funny my car just ran out of gas, too. Is there a gas station around here?" I thought of him, my daughter, my still running car, and my purse on the front seat and felt all the Samaritan rush out of my soul. He eyed the little plastic emergency tank as he talked to me. I imagined him licking his lips. I told him, thanks, but I didn't need any help, and directed him to a gas place.

Out there in the cold dark night I felt that for once, I did the safe thing by coming to my daughter's aid and sending away the coincidental stranger. I don't generally err on the side of sensibility, especially when someone tells me a sad story. (The stranger's story was sad. My daughter's was not. I cannot explain the difference. That is just the way it is.) I also felt oddly like a dad, so much so that I never said anything more to her than "Stay in the car, honey," and "Now get home." On the way there, of course, I came up with variations of, "What were you thinking?" and "Oh, you had time to put on mascara but not enough time to put gas in the tank?" Seeing that guy who would have been in the vincinity whether or not I dragged myself out of a warm bed, sort of drained the mouth right out of me.