I pull into the gas station this morning, my favorite gas
station, the one where Gas Station Guy works, because I need to fill my tank
with fuel and start my day with a friendly face (Gas Station Guy). I don't care that this station is on one of
the most congested street corners in town.
I don't even care that it's nearly impossible to pull into this station
and ridiculously complicated to pull out of it.
Well, I didn't care about the convoluted entrance/exit
situation until today.
I maneuver to my usual pump, strategically facing east. This way, if no one pulls up to the
south-facing pump, I will be able to cut across that gas lane and make my way
out to Main Street, getting a jump on the commuter traffic stuck at the light
and possibly beating the tech school bus that stops at the CVS across the
street.
There is an SUV parked in the adjoining east-facing
lane. Technically, he is in the
west-facing lane, but his vehicle has its gas tank on the wrong side. He's some kind of Eastern Westerner, apparently,
like Gandhi wearing cowboy boots. (I am
not even sure what that simile means but I like it for some strange reason, so
I'm leaving it in.) Anyway, it's a
nice-looking SUV, shiny, spotless as if it has never seen snow a day in its
brand new life. It's an Infiniti Fx50,
and the thing looks like it just rolled out of the showroom.
The Fx50 is already tanking up, so I shut off my car and
roll down my window. Gas Station Guy and
I exchange our usual repartee, then he goes off to attend to something else,
leaving my five-year-old, salt-coated Dodge to sit side-by-side with the
sparkling Infiniti, separated only by a gas pump.
Suddenly I hear a ticking noise.
I check my mirror to make sure the gas nozzle isn't doing
something funky into the tank of my car.
All seems well enough, so I relax for a nano-second.
Tick … tick … tick …
tick …tick … Like a time bomb
counting down.
I instantly wonder if I've pissed anyone off recently. Shit, that's a long list. The bomb must be under my car. I start retracing my
steps: Did I hear the ticking before I
started the car? After? While I was driving around the block?
Tick … tick … tick …
tick …tick …
What the holy hell is that?
Tick … tick … tick …
tick …tick …
As my brain is mentally checking off the dossiers of all of
my potential assassins, I realize that it's not the gas pump nor my
five-year-old car that is ticking.
It's the damn Infiniti Fx50.
Tick … tick … tick …
tick …tick …
It's not running; it's not steaming; it's not aflame.
Tick … tick … tick …
tick …tick …
It's a $62,000 car, for chrissakes, and the damn thing is
either dieseling or has the hiccoughs.
Neither thought is incredibly reassuring. Why am I not reassured? Because there's a frikking BOMB under the fancy-schmancy
SUV that is parked east-facing in a west-facing gas station lane, that's why I
am not reassured.
My car's tank is only down to quarter-full, but even on
fumes it will take less time to fill my car than it will to fill up the Fx50. Three-quarters of a tank later, I am
maneuvering my Dodge through the maze of the lot, working my way away from the
light and past the hidden cop who's so hidden that his car can be seen for
three miles in any direction. I leave
the Time Bomb Machine back at the station.
I feel guilty for about a nano-second when I remember that Gas Station
Guy is there and may well be blown to the Arctic Circle when the Fx50 becomes a
roasted pile of metal.
Once on the open road, I no longer hear tick … tick … tick … tick …tick … I hear a lot of road noise because, hey, it's
a Dodge, but I don't even detect any tick
… tick … tick … tick …tick … On my
way home I drive close enough to the gas station to look up the street, but I'm
not getting caught in any Gaper Traffic should a bomb actually have gone off.
I think we need to send a bunch of Infiniti Fx50's over to
the Middle East and have all of our soldiers drive them. Imagine how fast we can clear a village of
all its insurgents if we just drive down the streets with our vehicles steadily
whispering, "Tick … tick … tick …
tick …tick …"
BOOM.
