Out of Gas

So Today,

Not my day—even a little bit.

Cars revved past a little cubby by the roadside where I sat dormant in the driver seat of my Subaru—a crystal contrast to the moving things outside. The gas gauge lay limp on E, and the little orange pilot light faded. All that remained was the deafened stereo, whispering old lines from songs.

Sitting in my dead machine, with plenty of time my mind drifted to how I’d gotten there, stuck on the roadside, out of gas. I turned the radio off, sat back, and remembered.

It was one of those days.
Cold weather, slushy roads, the long drive up a tall mountain, an eight-hour pit stop at someplace I called work. I filled my tank days ago and only had enough gas to make it up the mountain a few times.

A couple hours into my shift I got a text message.

She told me we had tickets for 7:30 that night in Portland; I thought she meant for the movie but it turned out to be much better.

Hours later, I drove home and threw on something uncomfortable. We were running very late, and I was last out the door, running toward the blaring car horn and an anxious mom and sister in the front seats.

The show was amazing. Seriously, the set was one of the best I’ve seen, and the dude playing Genie slayed from when he stepped on stage until the bows and standing ovation, as always, lead early by my sister.

We knew there wasn’t enough time, but after the show we drove aimlessly around downtown and NoPo in search of quick food to sign off the night. It was 10:30 when we started looking, and by 11:15 we’d pulled into a Burgerville. Not our best moment, but a moment none the less.
I ate before the show, and by some miracle of willpower I didn’t order even fries.
I tried my sister’s shake, though.

Midnight
I woke to our car pulling into the driveway, on the edge of a forest miles from the city. Like every night out in the hills, it was quiet blackness as I tiredly sauntered through the front door, and found myself collapsing, finally reunited with my bed.

Next, I woke up, and This Song.

I woke up at what people call 5:30 but what I like to call hell.
It was Saturday. The Mountain was waiting for me, and we both knew it would be busy.

Sloshily, I pealed myself from blissful bed sheets and tore down the highway toward the cold summit of the mountain. A missed workout, a desperate commute, twenty minutes late, less than five hours of sleep, that day was miserable. We’ll call it Yesterday.

Yesterday
I broke my diet, hard. Eating relentlessly, I was a machine hot and ready for demolishing, and the kitchen was at my mercy—mercy to the machine. Bad things happened. There were candied hazelnuts. There was white bread.
I considered it all ruined and for the rest of my shift surrendered to what I’d become: the little fat boy from years ago.
Oh, how I loved him.

Driving home, I knew my tank was dwindling, but I didn’t care, just didn’t care. That night I plummeted to my mattress, feeling very slow and very much not myself.

The next morning
Things were nearly back to normal. Instead of five hours of sleep, I got six (still far from my usual nine), and I scraped myself together in almost enough time to be productive before heading to the summit.

Half way through my drive, the car was alive: radio blaring Hall and Oates, a metal shield from the rain, a spaceship sailing to the moon. I sang, jived, loved life—when the orange gas light crept on, it barely stinted my mood.

Time passed, I made it to the mountain, clocked in, had a great time entertaining myself and coworkers on an unexpectedly slow day, didn’t eat a single candied hazelnut or anything. We laughed so hard I cried, playing Cowboys like we were seven again. I came up with a hilarious idea for a skit I plan on shooting soon.

It was a great day.

Then, I began the drive home.

Hands wrapped around the steering wheel, eyes darting from road to ether, shoulders never set, instead grooving, I was singing my way down the mountain. The gas light burned orange, but I shrugged it off and rode on.

What’s funny is that the entire time, I was mildly concerned, partially believing I would make it to the next fill up. When my ride lurched, reality hit me.

My beautiful car, my Cochita, chugged, revved, kicked around corners, and wound down on a steady uphill grade. I was lucky enough to reach a cubby of gravel on the roadside.

I sat there while Cochita heaved a final breath. The purring faded; all that was left was the stereo.

I called my dad, and sat waiting for his minivan to the rescue me with a red, two-gallon jug of gasoline. People I figured were my coworkers drove by me in their humming, healthy cars. My dad came by and gave me enough gas to get to the station.

I was lucky

The thing is, when I filled my tank the time before, I said,
“Man, forty bucks? Guess I was empty again!”

Every time I get gas, it’s because my car has literally expunged every drop carrying me around, yet I always believe I’ll make it to the station.

This day was inevitable, and I wasn’t surprised when it happened; I still didn’t do anything to stop it from happening. I knew if I kept not worrying about my gas gauge, eventually I’d end up on the side of the road.

What I’d like to take away is that I should take care of things before they get away from me. Acting before things need fixing. Balancing enjoying the present with keeping the future in check. If I had no future plans, making ones would be the first step.

Pave a highway, fuel up, drive it.
Find ambition, Remain capable enough to pursue it.

I’m not a fan of the idea that people have to forever do something they hate so that they can afford moments they’ll love—we only get one life and for me that system doesn’t cut it. I believe everybody can figure out how to do what they love while keeping their tanks full enough to keep doing what they love.
We keep our tanks full by doing what we love.

Suffering is inevitable. Things will happen that throw us to the ditch, but sitting in the ditch, we know how we got there and therefore know the way back.