My name will never rank in the annals of "living on the edge" alongside Knievel, Wallenda, or Maury Plotkin, which is a name I just made up to satisfy the comedy rule of "three's."
There is one area of life's experience in which I have given vent to my wild side, if whatever side of mine that occasionally gets up and off its side is my wild side.
Perhaps you've played Gas Gauge Roulette yourself.
I clamber into my car in the morning, cursing that it's morning and that my car is a 2007 Camry instead of a 2017 Lexus and that it's morning. As I settle uneasily behind the wheel, I recall two facts I had somehow forgotten:
- I am practically out of gas, the warning light having
flashed for 5 or 6 miles before I got home last night, and
- I am a lazy and shiftless jerk who doesn't feel like pumping gas and (optional) it's really cold outside.
Game On!
Will I desperately strive to make it
safely to work without stopping to fill up for gas?
Or will I act prudently, fill up the tank, and drive to work confident and secure that I will arrive in style and in one
piece?
The former, of course. After all, this is Gas Gauge Roulette!
I’ve now gone a mile.
The warning light is back on, and likely there’s less gas in the tank than
water on the surface of the moon. I pass the first of several gas stations en route.
Do I stop?
Do I stop?
Nah. I am Wallenda, I am
Knievel, I am Maury Plotkin were he to exist.
Was that a sputter? Did the car make a choking sound? Hopefully that
was me sputtering and choking instead of the car.
The light on the dashboard is now glowing like the Bat Signal on a night the Joker is carting off Gotham City.
I ignore it.
The light on the dashboard is now glowing like the Bat Signal on a night the Joker is carting off Gotham City.
I ignore it.
The gas gauge itself is now actually speaking to me:
"Perry, you moron, you're riding on fumes! For god's sake, stop and get gas!"
Nope.
There is one last
gas station ahead before work. One last
possible reprieve from the ignominy and humiliation of running out of gas less
than half a mile from the job.
I motor on past.
The car is now shrieking at me in the same tonality and cadence as if it were Meryl Streep in the movie Florence Foster Jenkins.
There's the parking lot up ahead at last, and yes, I've won!
There's the parking lot up ahead at last, and yes, I've won!
America’s stupidest and most pointless game.
Why do I play Gas Gauge Roulette?
For me the game represents the ultimate point at which lazy crosses indomitable. Sometimes the only difference between being a hero and not being one is how much you are willing to risk to preserve your lassitude.
For me the game represents the ultimate point at which lazy crosses indomitable. Sometimes the only difference between being a hero and not being one is how much you are willing to risk to preserve your lassitude.
It's the end of
the day and I return to my vehicle. As I clamber into the car and settle
uneasily behind the wheel, I recall two specific facts I had somehow forgotten:
- I am practically out of gas, the warning light having
flashed frantically for a good 5 or 6 miles before I got to work
this morning, and
- I am a lazy and shiftless jerk who doesn't feel like pumping gas and (optional) it's really cold outside.
Game On!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
2 comments:
Who says you aren't as daring as Maury Plotkin? We all knew you were a lazy, shiftless bum, but you earned some much needed brownie points (remember Green Stamps?) with this. I can just see you trudging down a snowy highway to purchase a thimble full of gas.
Connie likes to play this game too. Only in her version, you leave the car on fumes for the next driver--me. I'm sure there have been several morning when she's chuckled after watching me walk out the door knowing that the gas light's been on for three days.
I think a lot of people play this game against their better judgment. We are all that lazy. Good luck to Connie, I'll meet her (and you) out of the road with a thimble full of gas.
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