Friday, 26 October 2001 | Gasoline

I don't really try to use every ounce of gasoline in my car before I refuel. It's just that putting petrol in my car is such a pain in the ass that I usually wait until the gauge is deep in the red, and the yellow glow of the gas light has been burning for days before I bother to do it. Of course when I notice that I desperately need gas, it's always morning, the time of day that I have zero expendable time for things like errands, so I usually decide to try and make the twenty-five mile drive to work on generous fumes. Then, at lunch, I roll to the gas station and leisurely fill my car, watching the numbers as they approach fifteen, the number of gallons my gas tank holds. For some silly reason, I'm always satisfied when I see that I was particularly close to being stranded; I don't know if it's relief that I feel, or if I'm just pleased with my own judgment of the gas gauge. When the numbers stop scrolling, sometimes I try to figure out how much further I could've gone before I would've had to make an embarrassing phone call (which has only happened once).

Today at lunch I put 14.852 gallons in my tank, which, if I'm figuring correctly, means I could've gone a mere 5.25 miles before grinding to a halt. Ah, life on the edge.

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Just now, a strange altercation at the I Love New York pizza place near my house, while I was picking up my dinner: lots of threats, some pushing, talk of shooting and knives and even terrorism, some ice thrown in the face and a call to the cops. Me, wedged in a corner blankly watching, uncomfortable and taking no one's side.