The plan was the four of us would go to the game together and meet at A.D.'s house. He'd drive us from there. We were all on board, but me especially because I hated driving... Mostly because I was kind of a shitty driver. (To put that in perspective I ran over a ton of shit; curbs, leaf piles, bikes, kids on bikes, whatever...) Come to think of it, the rest of them were likely just as relieved that they didn't have to spend the ride to and from Canton, Ohio (our destination for the football game) with their fingernails embedded in the interior of my '96 Nissan 200SX due to the tension caused by fear for their lives. A Win-Win, they call that.
But before I made it to the centralized location, I needed gas to get me there. With the high MPG on the ol' sports car (It was Fire Engine Red and had a spoiler, it was a fuckin' sports car!) it cost me a mere $14 to fill 'er up... FOURTEEN DOLLARS! Due to the economy (I guess) it was a more whimsical time when you drove just to drive; I'm talking about Parkway Buzz Routes for DAYS. That is, of course, unless you were driving with me at the wheel. There were more pressing matters at hand, namely survival.
So I stopped for gas. And not to harp on the theme of "this was a time when," but this was a time when there was a mutual trust between gas station owner and consumer. There wasn't this "pay-at-the-pump" or "pre-pay" malarkey. It was the home of the free, baby! So I rolled up to the nearest vacant pump, popped my gas tank, and proceeded to pump... pump pump it up.
While I was filling my tank, I noticed the gas attendant inside the Marathon hut was waving at me. I thought to myself, Boy, it is not every day you see this kind of hospitality! This fine gent has gone above and beyond to make my pumping of the gas experience as comfortable and inviting as it could be! I should write a letter to his superior... Perhaps I will... SO, I returned his graciousness with a hearty wave of my own. I top it off, replace the gas pump as I had found it, and proceeded inside to pay that man his money.
I crossed the threshold of the quaint, locally owned establishment to the pleasant jingle of the door chimes, and with a smile on my face and a bounce in my step I don't mind tellin' ya. Only, I wasn't met with the smile and open arms I'd expected from the attendant. No, I was greeted with a grimace and a look that could only mean one thing, "You fucked up."
And I did... I fucked up.
"Do you know you put diesel fuel in your car?" he asked with an arrogance about him.
I stopped. My body stiffened. And after taking a moment for his question to digest, with wide eyes, I responded with, "Wha-what does that mean?"
Means you fucked up... I'm paraphrasing.
"So what's gonna happen?"
(For those of you who do not yet know what diesel fuel does to an engine that runs on regular fuel, you're about get the account of such an occurrence from a learn-ED professional.)
"Wellllll," he shifted his belly that was encased with denim overalls, "she'll probably smoke for a while... Then... eventually... she'll dump on ya."
After chocking back the vomit at the thought of my father's reaction, "Ffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuck," I said. I walked out and hesitantly hopped back in my car, started her up, and drove to my friends. I made them aware of the situation, and decided that there was nothing I could do about it at that moment. We went to the game. We had a good time.
So the next day came and I woke up and called my father and sheepishly broke the news to him. He headed right over to my friend's house, where my ailing, diesel-poisoned Baby Red stood on its dying last leg. When dad arrived he called Triple-A... on speaker phone... and explained the situation. The Triple-A representative, as professionally as he could muster, replied, "I've been working in the automotive industry for 25 years and I have NEVER... heard of ANYONE... doing something like this." A little excessive, but whatever. He sent a tow truck and picked up my Baby Red.
The fuel system was flushed and she was back terrorizing the roads of suburban Cleveland and beyond in no time. My dad eventually got over it and as the years went on really grew along with me and became much more understanding of the nonsensical shit I did. He'd stand in the background of my adventures in idiocy and proclaim to the masses, with a tear in his eye, "That's my boy." This date back in 1998(ish) was the first time my father asked me directly if I was on drugs..., to which I replied, "What, you mean... right now?"
Why was it that easy for me to put diesel fuel in my car? I don't know. I feel like that should have been impossible... Like, the pump nozzle should have been 3 times too large to fit in my bomb ass sports car's gas tank. That's not the point. The point is be careful out there..., because like Abraham Lincoln said, Sometimes you're pumpin' the gas, and other times... the gas is... pumpin' you...
I'm paraphrasing.
RL
3/24/16
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