06 oct 2005
RUNNING OUT OF GAS
By Nanci Olesen
I ran out of gas last week. Literally. I don’t think that’s ever happened to me before. I don’t
remember ever having to push the car to the curb, calm myself, grab my purse, lock the car, and trudge off down the
street to the gas station.
It was a hot day, but I had only two city blocks to walk. At the
SuperAmerica on Nicollet there was a long line of people waiting to pay for their candy bars and sodas and gas.
I went to the aisle where they keep the red plastic thingies that you put gas in. Instead of waiting in the long
line to pay for it, I just took it right out of the store with me, swiped my Visa at the pump, filled the thing with
gas, and headed off down the street. I knew I would return right away with that unpaid-for red container.
As I walked I thought about how on that same day in Houston there were thousands of people who were running out
of gas on the freeway, trying to get out of the city before Hurricane Rita hit. I thought about all the stress each
of those parents must feel, trying to keep their kids calm, even as their cars stalled on the crowded freeway and
people lost their tempers and the sun beat down on them all.
I was hot by the time I got to my old Subaru. I was trying not to stress out about being late for my daughter’s
cross country meet at Powderhorn Park. I attached the yellow spout to the plastic container of gas, opened the little
gas door and unscrewed the gas cap. I started to pour. But it wouldn’t pour out. Was I doing something wrong?
I was shocked to realize how little I had ever handled gas in any other way than at the pump. Soon I figured out that
I had to remove a little red stopper so that the gas would flow. I got it right, and the gas flowed into the tank.
It sounded like gulping. This clear, stinky liquid that would get my car going. This liquid that everyone
needs every single day to get themselves around. This liquid that is getting more and more expensive. This liquid
that was being brought down to the freeway out of Houston in TANKS so that people could continue inching away to safety.
This liquid that is derived from oil, that we drill for all over the country and the world. Oil, the fossil fuel that
we can’t find enough of. Oil that we fight for.
My tank was done gulping the two gallons I offered it. I closed
up the little red container and put it in my hatchback. My hands and pants had gas on them. I drove back to the gas
station. There was still a long line at the checkout. I put the red gas container back on the shelf where I had borrowed
it from and went out to fill my tank completely at the pump, like I have a hundred times without even thinking.
At the cross country meet my daughter said “EWWW, Mom. You smell like GAS!” And then I thought again
about the moms in Houston on the freeway at that moment, and the oil rigs that were out at sea along the endangered
coast of Texas. I thought about global warming and its direct relationship with how much we use gas.
That was over a week ago. That gas smell won’t really wash out of my pants. I catch a whiff, and it reminds
me of all the big issues of gas and oil and the state of the world.
—Nanci Olesen
producer and host, MOMbo: 1990-2007 |
