Photo credit: Instagram, sallisonspurlock, Allie Spurlock, Sitka, Alaska
On the human stress-o-meter scale, driving a car on empty in pitch-black darkness on a narrow, curvy, country road scores right up there with the stress of sleeping through an alarm when you’re supposed to catch a flight.
Of course, I had only myself to blame for being in that position in the first place, but that realization was cold comfort and did no good except make me feel even worse about myself and my self-inflicted predicament.
Not that I’m trying to worm out of accepting responsibility, but I will say that I’ve had a string of unfortunate events that have messed with my coping skills and concentration. First, it’s been nearly two months since my 2015 Kia Soul developed some kind of terminal mystery condition that makes it dangerous to drive, I mean, unless you think it’s safe to drive a vehicle that abruptly throws up an array of dashboard lights for no good reason and then powers down anywhere it wants, a term I’ve come to know as “going into limp mode” – a condition for which there is no magic little blue pill to bring relief.
Thank goodness my sister lives around the corner from me and she allows me to drive her car when she’s not using it, because I’m still officially carless. I’m not being passive. Redding Kia has my car, and apparently technicians occasionally drive my car to see if it will do for them what it does for me: die. I am in ongoing phone conversations with Kia’s corporate customer care department, and even have a case number. As of Friday my case has been “escalated” — which I hope translates into Kia taking back my death-trap Kia lemon and swapping it out for another Kia of similar mileage (64,000 miles) and/or similar age (2015).
Second, the refrigerator gave up the ghost in my little Airbnb rental studio, and although the good news is that my increasingly expensive home-warranty policy does cover “refrigerators” plural — the bad news is it denies approval for “in-law” units, so I had to buy a new refrigerator. The even better news is that my home warranty policy does cover garage refrigerators. In the future, if any appliances in my Airbnb act up, I’m rolling them — refrigerators, stoves, dishwashers, whatever — to my garage.
Third, I experienced a bizarre situation at my bank when the bank’s call-center employee who transferred money from my HELOC into my checking account for a home-improvement project inadvertently added a zero, an error that went undetected for nearly a week, and was something the local bank folks said they cannot recall ever happening at their bank. Gee, I feel special. Normally, having $100,000 appear unexpectedly in my checking account would be nothing short of a miracle, if the money were free, and if no interest were charged. It’s all cleared up now, but the experience was a heart-pounder.
All those things had to do with money, which reminds me of something I heard someone say recently: “Money can’t buy happiness, but if you have 10 problems, the chances are good that eight of them could be solved with money.”
However, my stressful September event had nothing to do with money; but rather, my poor judgment.
On Sept. 28 I’d driven my sister’s Honda Element to my granddaughter’s 5 p.m. volleyball game in Red Bluff. I specifically remember glancing at the gas gauge when I picked up my sister’s car earlier that day to run errands before the game. I recall that the needle hovered somewhere less than half, but more than a quarter full. In my Kia, that means I’m good to go with miles and miles before I need a gas station.
By 6 p.m. in Red Bluff, the game was over. It was still light out. I felt restless. Nearby was the Red Bluff Walmart, which is my favorite North State Walmart because it’s clean, and calm, and the employees are especially friendly. What the heck, I needed potting soil, so hello, Red Bluff Walmart, it’s been a while, nice to see you again. Once inside I bought some Halloween candy, and oh my gosh, I found the most adorable two piece women’s pajama set in a dreamy-soft Joyspun fabric with a dark background, decorated with botanicals and forest animals.
It helped that the words “you are gorgeous” were stamped inside the neckline. Eventually, with a start, I broke from my dopamine retail trance and realized I’d killed more time than I’d intended inside the store. I wasn’t worried because I had a train to catch or anything. I felt dread because I do not love night driving, and night driving does not love me.
By the time I got to my car — er, my sister’s car — the sun was long gone. Crappity, crap, crap, crap! Doni, Doni, Doni!
No matter. I got on the freeway where I gave my full attention to driving. All was well, until I saw a glowing yellow flicker on the dashboard. Oh no! No dashboard lights. Not again!
I don’t know my sister’s car that well. For example, I don’t know if, when the empty light appears, if that means there’s another 30 miles left, or if it means that it’s bone-dry empty. I assumed the latter. I assessed my location, and realized I was now well beyond Red Bluff civilization, in that undeveloped highway purgatory space between Red Bluff and Cottonwood that’s all rolling hills and open land. I drove and drove and drove for what seemed an eternity as that yellow dashboard light seemed to grow brighter and more insistent by the second. Thank God, signs for Cottonwood appeared. I had choices: Cottonwood’s “Historic District” on Bowman Road came first, followed by Gas Point Road. Gas Point would have been my first choice, what with “gas” in its name. But Bowman was closer, and besides, I figured surely, Cottonwood’s historic district had gas stations.
I drove for several miles on Bowman Road. Two lanes. More dark than the heart of my second ex-husband. Curves. Narrow lanes. It was difficult to say what lay on both sides of Bowman Road, because it was too dark to see more than occasional porch lights or fence reflectors. Did I imagine headlights ricocheting off animals’ eyeballs? Jack rabbits, skunks, snakes, squirrels, coyote, wild pigs, cougars, bear and wolves. I know wolves haven’t been spotted down here in the valley yet, but hey, I’m the kind of gal who gets $100,000 bank errors that have never happened before. Why not wolves?
I own a cussing jar at home in which I place a dollar each time my grandchildren catch me cussing. By the end of the evening, had that cussing jar been along for the ride, I would have had enough money for a round trip ticket to anywhere except Cottonwood.
During that drive, there were F words aplenty, some of which ended with “ity” for emphasis, mixed with just the one-syllable F words, mixed with prayers. Please God, please God, please God!
My fears were many: It was so dark that if my sister’s car ran out of gas and crawled to a stop, then A: I’d end up in a ditch because it was too dark to see a proper driveway or turnoff, or B: If I ran out of gas I’d be walking along Bowman Road until I gladly accepted a ride from a serial killer, or C: If I ended up walking along Bowman Road, it might be out of cell-phone range, or D. My sister’s stalled car would be hit by a semi full of cattle, or E., see cougars, bears and wolves, above.
I imagined my family being notified of the discovery of my body somewhere on Bowman Road, and was certain their first words wouldn’t be, “Oh, no, poor Doni!” but “What the hell was Doni doing on Bowman Road!?”
I’ve heard people describe panic attacks, and do believe that’s exactly what I experienced as I drove in a terrified state down Bowman Road.
Just when I thought I’d was heading for the coast, I saw lights from a business on the left up ahead. A gas station? No. A market. I do not know the name of the market, but if I were a betting woman I’d bet it’s the Bowman Road Market, or some variation of that.
Emerging from the dark into that market with lights as glaring as a surgery center, I was on the verge of tears or laughter. I do believe the clinical term is hysteria.
The clerk was tall, ginger and handsome, and asked if I needed help. I managed to explain that I was lost, and I needed a gas station. He said it was easy; just turn my car around in the direction I’d just come, and I’d bump right into a gas station.
What? How was that possible? How could I have missed a gas station on Bowman Road?
I held myself together enough to admit that I didn’t think I had enough gas to make it to that gas station. That’s when a young man I’d not noticed spoke up. He was with a young woman. They looked like a happy couple. She was wearing camo-patterned clothes. He wore a regular T-shirt and jeans. The young man volunteered that he had a new gas can in the back of his truck that had about a gallon of gas, and he’d pour it in my car for me. I was nearly giddy with relief.
As the man poured every drop of gasoline from his gas can into my sister’s car I learned he was from the Bay Area, but she grew up here. Together they own property that’s quite a ways out — further than Bowman Road even — and they have a big problem with wild pigs. With their permission, some hunters had shot some pigs on their property, and were in the process of butchering them. The hunters had called and said it was going to be a long night of pig-butchering, which would require more beer. So that’s why the couple was standing in that Bowman Road market at exactly the moment a wild-eyed woman with Halloween candy wrappers falling from her pockets stumbled in babbling about being lost and maybe someone had siphoned gas from her car during the volleyball game, or maybe someone stole gas in the Red Bluff Walmart parking lot, because she could have sworn there was plenty of gas in that car earlier that day.
The sensation of relief reminded me of how I felt after 24 hours of hard labor with my first baby when an emergency C-section was finally ordered and I was given a spinal injection to block the pain, and the agony ceased immediately.
Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!!
I asked their names, and I only remembered his, because it’s my only grandson’s name: Austin.
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He refused to accept the $20 I held out to him. I turned to her, and begged her to take it, if anything, they could use it to buy more beer for the pig butchers. She accepted it, probably afraid I’d have a breakdown if she didn’t.
I did as tall-dark-and-ginger instructed, and sure enough, Bowman Road led me to a 76 gas station where I didn’t even look at the price, and didn’t stop until the car was full: $85 for 12 gallons of gas. I’d have paid $185.
Later, I asked my sister how many gallons her Element holds, and she said 11. I said that was impossible because I just put 12 gallons in her car. I floated my theory about someone siphoning gas from her car during the game or at Walmart. She smiled and shook her head. “No, I think you just ran out of gas.”
Excuse me, I almost ran out of gas.
But it was damn close. Too close.
My feeling of gratitude to Austin and his sweetie surpassed the feeling of fear I experienced.
How about you? When have you benefitted from the kindness of strangers?
While you think, I’m going to withdraw some money from my cussing jar to gas up my sister’s car. Just in case.
