02.08.06
(no longer) running on empty
Last night I was on my way home, driving my black diesel Jetta, listening to the previous day’s Randi Rhodes podcast as I often do during my short commute home. As I was laughing at her rants about John Ashcroft, Oprah, and Bush’s lies, something horrible happened.
Flashback to the weekend.
I had noticed on Sunday that my fuel light was on, and I knew that I needed to fill up soon. Generally speaking, however, I’m used to being able to go quite some distance on empty because of my car’s outstanding fuel economy. I telecommuted Monday because I wasn’t feeling well, and didn’t really think twice on Tuesday about driving to work on a low tank because I’d easily be able to make it to work and to the diesel station closest to home without a problem.
Boy, did I miscalculate.
I went to Fry’s Electronics in Sunnyvale last night on my way home so that I could purchase a sound card for the new desktop computer I built on Sunday, but it was only a minor detour from my usual route.
On I-880 I began to realize that I was having difficulty accelerating. I was going 60. Then, 50. Then I began to say, out loud, “Oh crap! Oh crap! Please don’t die! Please don’t die!”
All my pleading was completely useless. I put on my hazard flashers and slowly tried to maneuver the car to the side of the highway. Conveniently, that portion of the interstate had no shoulder. So, I had the pleasure of sitting in the right lane right after an onramp with my flashers on, hoping that my battery wouldn’t die and praying that no one would hit me from behind.
I didn’t know what to do. I have roadside assistance with my warranty, but I knew I was in a tough spot and that it would take anyone a really long time to arrive to help me. It was almost 10pm, and my options were few. So, I called Josh.
As I explained the story to him and begged him to go get some diesel and bring it to me, I couldn’t help but feel like a total f*ck-up. Things have been strained between us since last week, and I had offered to give him some “space”. Saying that you’re giving “space” to someone you’re dating is really a polite way of saying, “I like you, but I think I’m getting on your nerves and I want to get out of your hair for awhile so you don’t stop liking me back.”
Asking Josh to put on clothes over his pajamas, drive to the gas station, purchase a gas can, fill it with diesel, and bring it to me on the busy interstate at 10pm is not exactly my ideal execution of “space”, so I felt insanely pathetic and needy, but he was the only person I knew nearby who could help me.
“Hopefully this little fiasco will teach you a lesson,” he said to me after he agreed to come to my rescue.
While I was waiting for him to arrive, I had my first encounter with the California Highway Patrol. A trooper pulled in front of me, and I approached his squad car to explain that help was on the way. He proceeded to pull back behind my car, and using the front of his car, he pushed me in neutral over to the shoulder about 100 feet past where my car had died.
I was amazed not only by the power of his patrol car’s engine, but also by how clearly I could hear him telling me to put on my seatbelt using his megaphone, even with the windows shut. The officer appeared quite obviously to be checking my plates (to make sure I’m not the stupid car thief who runs out of gas, I suppose) and then, he just left. Poof. No goodbye, nothing.
While I waited for Josh to arrive, I snapped some photos by which to commemorate this irritating occasion. I mused briefly about how absurdly vain I might have looked sitting on the highway in a dark car, photographing myself.
Josh arrived after a few minutes had passed, 1-gallon canister of diesel in hand. At first I was worried he might be annoyed with me because of his comment on the phone, but he seemed reasonably calm, considering the situation and his state of exhaustion. I poured the fuel into the tank, but the car just wouldn’t start. The engine turned and turned, but no matter what I did, it just wouldn’t start. My thoughts immediately turned to the fact that I was wasting battery power and might end up with a dead battery and an engine that wouldn’t start.
I’m generally pretty smart about cars, but I had no idea what could be wrong. Maybe the fuel needs more time to drip down into the tank? I thought, although that was a pretty stupid theory, considering that diesel doesn’t have the consistency of molasses.
As I’m pacing nervously around the car trying to figure out what to do next, patrol car #2, this time with two officers, arrives behind us. I explain the situation, and one of the officers says to me in a concerned tone, “Oh, it’s a diesel. You may have air in the tank. You may have to purge the fuel line.” As I’m trying to process this horrible news, he explains that they’re going to push my car to the next exit to a gas station right off the highway, which conveniently doesn’t have diesel.
Josh drives me to a nearby station, where I buy a larger 2-gallon gas can and fill it with diesel. My hope is that refilling the original empty can, along with this new one, will give me enough fuel to coax the stubborn car into starting. When we arrive back at the station where my car is parked, I notice that some fuel has spilled into Josh’s trunk. I have diesel all over my hands from picking up the containers. I try to empty the larger can into the tank, spilling some here and there, and try to start the car once more.
It won’t start. I’m on the verge of panicking. So I attach my portable battery charger to the car battery for some extra juice, and just let the engine keep cranking and cranking, frantically praying for the car to start. About 15 seconds later, the familiar sound of the engine starting nearly makes my heart stop, and I collapse with relief.
I sat in the car with Josh for a few minutes talking about the issues we’ve been dealing with, and explaining to him that the “space” thing was only my way of overreacting about what had happened between us and trying to make things right. I apologized profusely for troubling him, especially when I was supposed to be backing off, but he remained kind and calm, as always, and told me with a smile that I shouldn’t worry so much.
As I drove home, the stink of my diesel-coated hands mixing with the chilly night air, I pondered many things –my stupidity for letting the tank get to empty, my misfortune in not being able to get to a station before running out, the overabundance of friendly state troopers in California — but most importantly how lucky I was to have someone who would come rescue me even when things aren’t perfect between us. I suppose I shouldn’t worry so much.
Overall, it was a great night.
Tags: frustration, jetta, josh, life, relationships