Inspecting Overpasses, Sidewalks and More!
Ahh, Thursdays - my half day at my 9-5er and a lunchtime jaunt to my local, comfy gym to get in my daily lunchtime workout and then out to write and...
Hey, have I told you that gas is down to just $2.27 per gallon? What great news!
Surely if it's that cheap that quick, I can hold off a few days more to get a TRUE deal on the petroleum product that propels my whip (ie ride for everyone else), right!?
Buzzzer! Denied!
As I traveled quickly at a roaring 70mph, a favorite local talk radio station blaring out loudly as all kinds of propaganda, truth and advertisement filled my senses. Then it happened.
I felt "the" lurch. The sudden wiggle. The pump of gasless horror as I looked at my (broken) fuel indicator, and then at the trip meter that still runs on electrical power. Hmm, 138 miles. When did I last fill up? What was the gas price and how much did I buy then? It turns out that I wasn't on E, folks, I was on J. Dead, dead, deadski in the way of gasoline.
Realizing what had befallen my mechanical steed, I twisted the becoming-heavier steering wheel to the right as I engaged my turn signal. A friendly motorist (gasp!) let me over quickly and as if torn from a frame of the second Matrix film, I was suddenly on a new, expansive overpass off-ramp slowly winding to a very undramatic halt. A quick turn of the key allowed my engine to make a few Jabba-The-Hut-like gurgles of death, and I realized that I was going to be late for my appointment.
My senses became acutely aware not only of my surroundings and my sight - that isn't so great usually - became as keen as a wolf's eyes in the frozen tundra - looking for prey to feed his family. Would the venerable wolf be able to see salvation from his recent resting spot? Would his family go hungry (or in this case, go sort of exercises but not nearly as so as if I had actually made it to my gymnasium destination)? As the almost-noon sun crossed my brow facing northbound, I saw - A Phillips 66 gas station sign! There is light at the end of the proverbial tunnel/overpass! The overpass I had to cross has recently been constructed and is literally like something out of a new-age, hearkening back to the 50s movie. Pristine cement everywhere, trees that looks as though they were plucked from a Walt Whitman painting - solid, bold lines denoting lanes, turn venues and stoplight engagement signs. Finally, an opportunity to inspect Overpasses, Sidewalks and more to see your government cheese hard at work!
I inhaled a quick breath of excitement, hurry and anticipation and began jogging to the within-eye-shot station logo, traversing the overpass - oh my god! I am FROGGER! I can literally hear the "blurp-bleeurp-blurp" of each step and the car horns erupt! I look brazenly to my left to avoid a battered red jeep clamoring up the on-ramp to make a turn as they pave their path to their destination. My New Balance striker, tidy-white running shoes carry me faster than any other 38-year-old in history across 6 lanes of traffic, unmarred by the vans, trucks, service vehicles and soccer mom-piloted SUVs leaving only colored streaks in my memory. I have arrived intact at Phillips 66, and yet - the battle is only half over. I search the incredibly small confines of the "station house" where only the station attendant, another customer, myself, and the world's largest box of Chik-O-Stiks can fit, looking for a gasoline canister to fill with middle-eastern-created bounty to bring back to my fallen steed. Finally, there, next to the motor oil and funnels - just above the $6 window washing solution, is -- A $6 1-gallon gas canister? $6? Oh, I truly an being tested! Somehow I am able to take the canister off the wall without it some how inducing instant seizure and put it on the tiny counter top next to the Chik-O-Stiks.
"Whaddya' need there sonny?"
You've got to be kidding me, I ponder.
"How about a gallon of gas, ma'am?"
You got it, hon. You gonna' pump that now?"
I look at the camera that follows me everywhere in my mind's eye, looking for solace, finding none and ask myself. "Hath Hell truly opened and gobbled me up?"
An intervention of common sense arrives for Darcy at the register as she requests $8.61, I hand her my Joe Cool Debit card and pray that there will be a future where I will see my wife and daughter again.
"Can I see your ID?"
(a strange silence falls in the land of Wilkerson...)
I whip my wallet out fast enough that were her neck close enough, we'd be talking to a torso - "No problem, thank you for asking," I offer. I sheath my would-be leather blade and sign the receipt, as if I were signing for a fan at a rock concert. "Thanks for your help, and have a nice day, ma'am," exits my smiling maw.
My feet once again propel me as if I were watching from overhead, in and out of vehicles, lanes and pedestrian-forbidden pathways to bring the sweet motor nectar to my starving SUV honeybee. I arrive.
The gas tank opens like a gullet, awaiting a thirst-quenching salvation and receives the $2.27 cent (minus the spillage, of course) bounty, from the must-be-solid-gold red plastic gas canister from the local Phillips 66.
With 9 minutes to spare, I will only be 2 minutes late for my workout - make that continued work out for this evening. Ahh, it's good to be able to Grab the Wheel.
Hey, have I told you that gas is down to just $2.27 per gallon? What great news!
Surely if it's that cheap that quick, I can hold off a few days more to get a TRUE deal on the petroleum product that propels my whip (ie ride for everyone else), right!?
Buzzzer! Denied!
As I traveled quickly at a roaring 70mph, a favorite local talk radio station blaring out loudly as all kinds of propaganda, truth and advertisement filled my senses. Then it happened.
I felt "the" lurch. The sudden wiggle. The pump of gasless horror as I looked at my (broken) fuel indicator, and then at the trip meter that still runs on electrical power. Hmm, 138 miles. When did I last fill up? What was the gas price and how much did I buy then? It turns out that I wasn't on E, folks, I was on J. Dead, dead, deadski in the way of gasoline.
Realizing what had befallen my mechanical steed, I twisted the becoming-heavier steering wheel to the right as I engaged my turn signal. A friendly motorist (gasp!) let me over quickly and as if torn from a frame of the second Matrix film, I was suddenly on a new, expansive overpass off-ramp slowly winding to a very undramatic halt. A quick turn of the key allowed my engine to make a few Jabba-The-Hut-like gurgles of death, and I realized that I was going to be late for my appointment.
My senses became acutely aware not only of my surroundings and my sight - that isn't so great usually - became as keen as a wolf's eyes in the frozen tundra - looking for prey to feed his family. Would the venerable wolf be able to see salvation from his recent resting spot? Would his family go hungry (or in this case, go sort of exercises but not nearly as so as if I had actually made it to my gymnasium destination)? As the almost-noon sun crossed my brow facing northbound, I saw - A Phillips 66 gas station sign! There is light at the end of the proverbial tunnel/overpass! The overpass I had to cross has recently been constructed and is literally like something out of a new-age, hearkening back to the 50s movie. Pristine cement everywhere, trees that looks as though they were plucked from a Walt Whitman painting - solid, bold lines denoting lanes, turn venues and stoplight engagement signs. Finally, an opportunity to inspect Overpasses, Sidewalks and more to see your government cheese hard at work!
I inhaled a quick breath of excitement, hurry and anticipation and began jogging to the within-eye-shot station logo, traversing the overpass - oh my god! I am FROGGER! I can literally hear the "blurp-bleeurp-blurp" of each step and the car horns erupt! I look brazenly to my left to avoid a battered red jeep clamoring up the on-ramp to make a turn as they pave their path to their destination. My New Balance striker, tidy-white running shoes carry me faster than any other 38-year-old in history across 6 lanes of traffic, unmarred by the vans, trucks, service vehicles and soccer mom-piloted SUVs leaving only colored streaks in my memory. I have arrived intact at Phillips 66, and yet - the battle is only half over. I search the incredibly small confines of the "station house" where only the station attendant, another customer, myself, and the world's largest box of Chik-O-Stiks can fit, looking for a gasoline canister to fill with middle-eastern-created bounty to bring back to my fallen steed. Finally, there, next to the motor oil and funnels - just above the $6 window washing solution, is -- A $6 1-gallon gas canister? $6? Oh, I truly an being tested! Somehow I am able to take the canister off the wall without it some how inducing instant seizure and put it on the tiny counter top next to the Chik-O-Stiks.
"Whaddya' need there sonny?"
You've got to be kidding me, I ponder.
"How about a gallon of gas, ma'am?"
You got it, hon. You gonna' pump that now?"
I look at the camera that follows me everywhere in my mind's eye, looking for solace, finding none and ask myself. "Hath Hell truly opened and gobbled me up?"
An intervention of common sense arrives for Darcy at the register as she requests $8.61, I hand her my Joe Cool Debit card and pray that there will be a future where I will see my wife and daughter again.
"Can I see your ID?"
(a strange silence falls in the land of Wilkerson...)
I whip my wallet out fast enough that were her neck close enough, we'd be talking to a torso - "No problem, thank you for asking," I offer. I sheath my would-be leather blade and sign the receipt, as if I were signing for a fan at a rock concert. "Thanks for your help, and have a nice day, ma'am," exits my smiling maw.
My feet once again propel me as if I were watching from overhead, in and out of vehicles, lanes and pedestrian-forbidden pathways to bring the sweet motor nectar to my starving SUV honeybee. I arrive.
The gas tank opens like a gullet, awaiting a thirst-quenching salvation and receives the $2.27 cent (minus the spillage, of course) bounty, from the must-be-solid-gold red plastic gas canister from the local Phillips 66.
With 9 minutes to spare, I will only be 2 minutes late for my workout - make that continued work out for this evening. Ahh, it's good to be able to Grab the Wheel.
posted by Mike Wilkerson - 2GuysTalking at 12:31 PM
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