Don’t believe in Missy’s Law yet? Well, hold on to your hat, kid. I’m going to give you some proof that I dare you to contest.

The day is Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving.

*Pausing for tangent* I love URFs (Useless Random Fact) and that is what most of my tangents are about. The problem is that I’m very trusting (I generally believe what people tell me) and that I’m lazy (I rarely research to find out if the information I’ve been given is accurate – thank goodness for Snopes.com) So I may periodically jump in with an URF but you have been warned – accuracy is questionable. If I’m wrong, please correct. I take no offense. I already know I’m too lazy to look it up – which sometimes I actually do look it up but let’s set the default at “unverified.” That is my disclaimer and this is my URF.

URF: It’s called Black Friday because retailers get back into the black (a good thing – being in the red means you’re broke) because of all the shopping done on that day.

Back to story. I am not one of those people who is up before dawn…well, I am but not to shop the after-Thanksgiving sales. Remember, I have social anxiety disorder. The mere thought of being crammed into places with enormous amounts of people, makes my tummy do flip-flops. In fact, I find myself breaking into a sweat even now. But I digress. Black Friday this year was rainy in Dallas but I was determined to accomplish a number of tasks. I’d already figured the most efficient order in which to tackle said tasks and I was on my way, optimistic and hopeful – clearly forgetting that this is my life.

My first task was to take around 7 bags of cans to be recycled. My mom drinks a lot of soda and I asked her to stop throwing the cans in the trash. I even got her a can crusher (Note: mom’s house has a bit of space problem so while she would save the cans to be recycled, bags upon bags upon bags would pile up making her space problem even worse. The can crusher was intended to slow down the piling up process.). Now there are more than the 7 bags I took that need to be recycled but my car also has a space issue J I crammed what I could fit in my car and still have room for the Salvation Army donations that I intended to drop off. Did I mention I had many tasks planned?

First task went off without a hitch. Other than the fact that it was sprinkling, no problems. I am not fearful of rain or anything and I know for certain that I won’t melt. So I took my cans, got the money for the cans and went to walk back to the Honda. Sorry, no cute little name for this car. Just the Honda. Well, as I was just about to cross from the covered part of the lot to the uncovered part when the sprinkle opted to upgrade to downpour. I thought to myself, this is typical and then walked to my car. Didn’t run. Again, not afraid of being wet. More afraid of falling while running. Have never melted from being wet. Have often fallen while running. Anyway…

I get in the car and think to myself, “Wow, I got more for those cans than I expected. I’ll use that money to get gas. I’m a little low.” Yet in my “efficiency route” I had not planned for gas so off I went to check off the next thing on my to do list. I needed to go by Parkland Hospital. After a brief visit there recently, I realized that they had not returned to me my valuables, most important to me was my wedding ring. I had a little piece of paper that said if I went to the cashier’s office between the hours of 8:30 – 5 and presented this little piece of paper, they would give to me an envelope containing my valuables. Now, let me just say here that I know a lot about Parkland Hospital. What I’m not very clear on is its location. But I had a rough idea and an address on this little piece of paper. Well, the roads are nearly empty. People, I assume, are either at the sales, recovering from their feast the prior day, or possibly just don’t want to venture out in the nasty weather.

So I am driving on Harry Hines (which by the way is the street that Parkland Hospital is located), I pull up to a red light, and I stop. Now here I am going to be lazy again and do a little cut and paste from my last blog.

In the far left lane, there’s a DART bus and in that middle lane there is me. Light is red. I am stopped. With a resounding thud, I am no longer stopped. Light is still red. Confused, I pump the ole brakes (since it’s been raining, one is supposed to pump, right?) Well, brakes worked. I stopped. Confused for a moment, I looked at the DART bus wondering how she was still all the way over there. Then in my periphery I saw the culprit. The black Durango. I hope I’m not showing too much ignorance here but I’m fairly impressed with the way the Dodge handled hitting me. You can see by the photo not a lot of major damage. Seems like a good, sturdy car to be in when you’re ramming some poor little Honda. God bless American cars (here is where I fear my ignorance may shine through. I know dodge is an American company but I have no idea where their vehicles are actually manufactured or the nationality of the people doing the manufacturing.) But I also believe that my little Honda held up pretty well, for getting sucker punched, at least. I could drive it away (not for a while though) The DART lady said she saw it all but couldn’t stay because…well…she was in fact driving a bus at the time. I took down how to reach her.

So the driver of the Durango doesn’t drive off, for which I am very grateful and for which I’m sure he is kicking himself. Had he driven off, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything. But he was an honorable man. Well, boy. He was 18. Or at least that’s what his ID from Mexico indicated. Still, though, honorable. Yet not bilingual. And our native tongues did not match. Now I have taken the required Spanish classes. I did the honors courses and in college I was tested and found knowledgeable enough to have to take only one semester. Remind me to tell you about the crazy Spanish professor later. Most of my conversational Spanish, however, was picked up during high school when I worked at Sonic. I knew how to take orders in Spanish, suggest items in Spanish, and even convey the orders to the cooks. Then I could take the order to the Spanish-speaking customer, tell him or her how much it cost, take the money, and wish him or her a good day/evening/night. I was pretty cool.

Black Friday, however, I was lacking the coolness of my youth or perhaps it had just been washed away from the rain that I was standing in. I had no idea how to convey to this young gentleman what I needed from him. I even noticed that I was doing that thing I hate that people do when there is a language barrier – talking louder. This guy was super nice and compliant though even when I said, “You know I have to call the police, right?” Perhaps it was the “I’m so sorry” that I tacked on to the end that made it all ok. So I’m going to my car to get my phone when I see a (I’m not sure the correct occupational title here) security guard (?). His vehicle says UT Southwestern Police. I did not realize that he was not actually police until he said, “Have you called the cops yet?” To which I replied, “I was about to when I flagged you down.” I don’t remember his name but he was very nice.

At this point I should note that from the time I realized I was in an accident, I am hyper. I had adrenaline pumping at double capacity through my veins and somehow trying to stay calm enough to remember everything I’m supposed to do much less try to actually do it. I can’t help but think that the adrenaline was on overload for me because of my previous accident, the one that put me in intensive care and a brief coma. I’m thinking in light of that trauma, I’m handling things pretty well. But I’m talking a lot…even for me…which means a whole lot. But back to the story.

Let’s call the security officer Bob. Again, I’m lazy and don’t want to have to keep writing security officer again and again. So Bob has called the police but indicates that it will probably be a while before they show up. The rain has stopped for a while. And I have a realization. I have my camera in the car. Photos are posted on the previous blog. So while I’m going all [insert favorite photographer here] Bob makes a comment that could lead one to believe that he leaned a little towards a racist point of view. I think my quick dismissal of his statement squashed further conversation about that. But it was very, very cute because when he suggested that his wife talk to Luis (the honorable 18 year old, uninsured, unlicensed young man that drove in to my car) because she is from Spain and speaks Spanish, he did it in such a way as to make sure that I knew he wasn’t a racist. I mean, he was married to woman from Spain. The thought this makes me giggle a little. Here’s this grown man who has like 30 years on me, clearly feeling badly about a statement that he made that I dismissed. And he’s trying to regain my favor by pointing out that he isn’t what he thinks I have judged him to be. Does that make sense? I mean, what does he care what I think? I’m this manic pedestrian who is never going to see him again after we part ways. But I think the part that amuses me the most is that I haven’t judged him to be a racist. Yes, his statement could lead one to jump to that conclusion but I really try not to jump to conclusions about people. I mean I think of some of the things I have said or actions I have done and I would hope that someone wouldn’t base his or her character assessment of me on that limited information. I didn’t assume he was racist, judge him, and dismiss his statement. I heard his statement, assessed that it would lead to a racist conversation, realized that (not being a racist myself) would have nothing to contribute to that conversation, so I dismissed the statement. Wow, that was a big ole tangent.

So Yolanda, Bob’s Spanish wife, speaks to Luis and gathers information from him. Then I speak with Yolanda and take down the information she has gathered and thank her for spending her time to help me out. Graciously, she accepted my thanks and conversation ended.

Cops showed up rather promptly, considering I was expecting them to take forever. Come to think of it, I don’t recall seeing Bob again after I gave him back his phone. The officers assessed the situation. The female officer was (or rather is) bilingual so she’s talking to Luis but appears to be having a difficult time obtaining information from him. Luis appears frightened yet is hiding it with the classic Latin machismo mixed with an unusual dose of embarrassment. But these are just my interpretations based solely on his body language. It occurs to me that she doesn’t need to struggle getting the information as I already have it. So like the kiss-up kid in school, I proudly trot over to her with his information. She appears relieved and then asks for my license and insurance. I’m no longer the proud kiss-up. Just having gotten married, I have a new insurance card but I’m not sure where it is. Having a brief stay at Parkland, I’m not sure where my driver’s license is. And then I’m remembering that my registration is painfully overdue. Well I find the insurance card just where mom told me to always put it so there is relief. But the driver’s license doesn’t jump out. So I hand her the insurance and explain that I’m not sure where the license is but I know the number if that helps. Silence. Then she turns back around and continues to write the report. Meanwhile her partner is instructing me to pull the car over into this business driveway type thing so that no one else hits me. Thinking that’s a pretty good idea, I comply. While in the car, I see my cell phone and realize I haven’t actually made any calls about what’s happened. So I call my husband, who is spending his day off after the holiday in the office trying to conquer this mountain of work he has on his plate. I’m feeling guilty for disturbing him but thinking that he needs to know what’s going on. He gives me the name and number of the people I need to call. So I hang up and realize that this is still taking a long time and I’m not sure what the deal is but I call the number Kelly gave me. Well, as it turns out, the insurance office is closed for the holiday. But they have generously left a toll free number in the event of an emergency or if someone needs to make a claim. I scribble down that number and give it a call. Unfortunately, that number indicates that it is, as well, closed for the holiday and that whoever is calling should call back on the next business day. So I hang up just in time to hear that they are going to impound Luis’ Durango. More guilt. Here is this nice, honorable kid who as it turns out just bought the car and it’s going to the impound. But I had to re-focus. I called Kelly back and told him that they were closed. He thought I had just called the original office and not called the toll free number but when I explained that I had indeed called the toll free number and that they were closed as well, he started getting angry. So I offered the possibility that I’d written the number down wrong. Hastily he hung up.

So I’m apologizing to Luis throughout this whole ordeal because I know it’s going to suck for him. And I’m mid apology when I realize that the ringing sound was coming from the phone in my pocket. This realization, of course, is just in time to have missed the call. But I see it was Kelly and I call back. He’s livid. Yes, the emergency number left by the insurance agent was closed for the day. I try to see the silver lining and say at least my car isn’t going to be impounded like poor Luis. But this angers Kelly more. “Good. It should be impounded. He hit you. Four lanes of nothing and one lane of you and he hits you. He doesn’t have insurance; he doesn’t have a license; he deserves…” You get the idea. I try to evoke a sliver of sympathy from Kelly for Luis. I fail. At this point I determine the best bet is to change the subject and ask Kelly since we can’t contact our insurance agent, what should I do. After assessing the damage and what possible additional damage could come from driving it, we determine that it’s probably ok to drive but why take chances? This is, after all, me. Then I express to Kelly my concern that I cannot find my license and that my registration is so overdue. Kelly says in the cutest “man” way, “Well, did you check the flappy thing in your purse?” I had, in fact, not checked the flappy thing. When I did, I immediately saw the awful driver’s license photo staring at me. I’m giddy. When Kelly and I hang up, I return to the female officer back in the kiss-up kid mode. She appears amused with my pride for finding my license. She says she needs the VIN for the report. I offer her the insurance card she’d just handed back to me, knowing the VIN is on that but she explains she needs to see it on the dash. Internally, I sigh. Viewing the VIN will put her in direct sight of my expired registration sticker. Immediately, I hear “Whoa.” No more proud kiss-up kid. “That’s really expired.” And suddenly I hear myself spewing all these excuses (I think there’s a little person inside of me that sits around and thinks of excuses and chimes in whenever he feels like it. No, no, I don’t really believe that little people live inside of me but am finding it interesting that the gender of this little excuse maker is male.) I hear myself saying, “It’s on my to do list. I just got married and before that I was planning a wedding and my husband was changing jobs and…well, it’s been a busy [quick math in my head figuring how expired it is] 6 months. I’ll move it up to the top of the to do list.” She is smiling as she tells me that because of the situation, she won’t write a ticket for it but the possibility of someone else writing a ticket for it, since it’s so expired, is pretty high. Grateful, I nod indicating that it will be done soon. And for one of the first times in my life, I shut up. I figured nothing I said after this exchange would help me.

Tow truck comes. Luis and his buddies (did I mention he had 2 other gentlemen with him who were neither as young as Luis nor as nice?) rush to gather items out of the Durango. I consider offering them a ride home but due to the impression I’m getting from Luis’ buddies, I opt against it. So I turn to the gentleman officer and ask, “By the way, which way is Parkland?” He points to the left. I’d turned the wrong way on Harry Hines. If I had gone the right direction, none of this would have happened. Missy’s Law

But, no, the story doesn’t end there.

I figure I’m very close to Parkland so what will it hurt to mark one more thing off the task list I had been so determined to accomplish? I drive a few blocks, find a parking lot. It looks like you’re supposed to pay because it has those arm things. But they’re up. So I drive in. I park. I’m realizing that I’m developing a bit of a headache so figure I should probably put a little pep in my step so I can get home to take something. Well, Parkland’s main entrance has this large rotating door. And all over that door are signs that say “If you push on the door, it will stop.” Literally, these signs are big and obvious. It’s telling you to go with the flow of the door, don’t rush, take your time, be cool…or you and everyone else trapped in the door will be punished. At least that’s how I interpret it. But not the lady leaving. She hasn’t interpreted it at all…because, and I’m just assuming here, she hasn’t read the sign. So when she pushes the door, it stops. I’m, of course, still walking because I haven’t pushed on the door so when it stops, I run in to it. I step back quickly as I don’t want to put any pressure on the door lest it stay in the stopped position but the lady leaving is getting frustrated because she has pushed to go faster and now she is stopped so her solution is to push more, harder. My anxiety is catching up with me. I think my adrenaline had me in front of the anxiety for most of this ordeal but now I’m stopped…in a rotating door…with a lady in a hurry creating the exact opposite circumstance than she is trying for. I hear an assertive voice from behind me say, “Hey!” Tapping on the glass. Pointing to the sign. “Stop pushing the door.” No movement from the door. Assertive voice behind me has a somewhat short fuse I figure because the next command was, “Get your hands off the door, lady!” Hurried lady leaving Parkland finally gets the big picture. She puts her hands up and backs up. Door moves. The world is right again. Thank you, assertive voice from behind.

I move quickly to the information desk as I have no idea where the cashier’s office is; the little piece of paper doesn’t indicate where it is just that I’m to go there and present this paper. When the woman at the information desk finishes the tidbit of gossip with the totally disinterested man at the counter, she looks at me. No “May I help you?” “What can I do for you” or even a “Whatcha need?” Just a look with raised eyebrows implying that my hesitation to speak was wasting her time. So I quickly sputter “Cashier’s office. This paper says I need to go to the cashier’s office and I’m not sure where to find it.” I love the response. As she’s grabbing her chair to sit down, she says, “I could tell you where it is but aint nobody there. It’s closed.” My first thought is how long did that accident take; could it be after 5 already? I’m not wearing a watch (it apparently is being held captive with my wedding ring in the closed cashier’s office). I find myself unfolding the magical piece of paper to prove that it says that all I have to do is go to the office between 8:30 and 5 – this regressive behavior indicates to me that the anxiety is just about to peak so I’m really trying to control my breathing so I don’t start hyperventilating and have a full on panic attack. I realize this little paper isn’t going to make the office suddenly open and be staffed. “For Thanksgiving,” the now sitting information clerk is telling me. “Cuz Thanksgiving was yesterday. It’s closed til Monday.” Ah yes, it is Black Friday. So I confirm, “So if I come back on Monday between 8:30 and 5 with this little slip of paper, I can get my little envelope?” Appearing somewhat sympathetic now, the clerk nods. I thank her and head back to that tricky rotating door. This time, no hurried person stopping the process. I’m at this point realizing that if I had called ahead NONE of this would have happened. But I cut myself a break because I know how much I dislike talking on the phone.

Then something strange catches my eye. These two bluish gray pigeons are what I can only describe as doing the tango. Their little faces are facing each other, beak to cheek if you will. And they are dancing in one direction then suddenly they change and go the opposite direction. I think to myself, “Remember this. You’ve never seen this before. Remember this.” I’m puzzled because I think mating rituals usually occur in the spring, but here it is late November, cold, wet (but at least the rain had stopped for a while). So I tell myself they must be in love so the season doesn’t matter. Suddenly I feel better about not having my wedding ring. The tango pigeons didn’t need rings. Anxiety attack averted. Thank you, tango pigeons.

So I hop in my car. The arms to the lot are still up so I drive out. I am thinking I will surely get a ticket in the mail in a few weeks for failure to pay a parking lot machine but I’m feeling ok and I rationalize that I can use that $3 for the parking lot to get even more gas. Well, the way the roads are set up by Parkland, if you turn right Harry Hines intersects with Inwood (where the Salvation Army is) but not in the traditional right turn kind of way. It’s more like entering the highway where you veer and curve more than turn directly. And the Salvation Army (it’s a big one) spans from the beginning of the curve all the way to a direct entrance after you’ve gotten on Inwood Rd. Easy, right? One would think. But remember, this is me. The entrance for the donations area is not the same entrance as the main entrance and I drive right by it. I figure it should be pretty easy to pull in the main entrance and drive back around. Then I see the main entrance. Apparently, the shopping on Black Friday isn’t limited to the malls and department stores. The Salvation Army retail store is swarming with people. Quick evaluation of my state of mind at the time even after the tango pigeons tells me if I try to maneuver through those people, an anxiety attack will definitely follow. So I drive past the main entrance. I know of another donation drop off just down the street, and on the way home, and close to some gas stations. So I head there. I notice a gas station but it’s one of those that doesn’t have any attendants. You pay with a card at the pump and don’t have to deal with people at all. Normally, I love those. But today I have cash and nothing in the card. I drive on. I get to the donation drop off for the women’s shelter. Guess what? They’re closed. Very polite signs invite the public to return on Monday. Magic Monday when the world begins again.

At this point, the headache has kicked in, I’m tired and feeling defeated. I hear myself saying, “I’m going to donate this shit if it kills me.” There’s a little loading dock area that’s covered and my stuff is in a plastic bag and then another canvas bag. So I stick the canvas bag in the plastic bag, put it in the covered dock area, and get back in my car.

I’m almost done with my list…well…sorta. I just need to pick up a prescription at Target. Going to the alternate donation place has put me right there. So I get in the left lane to go to Target and see the Exxon on the right. I rationalize that I’m in a hurry to get everything done so I’ll do Target first and then stop at the next place I see for gas. As I’m pulling in to the Target parking lot, the realization that is still Black Friday and Target is bound to be packed like every other retailer in the US. So I pull in to the parking lot, circle around, and exit the parking lot. Well, now the Exxon is behind me but the entrance to the highway is directly in front of me. And the little reminder light showing a gas pump hasn’t even lit up. I’ll be fine. Oh wait. This is me.

I’m actually heading to my mother’s house so I take the highway to another highway and the exit drops you off into a relatively industrial area. Completely deserted since there are no retailers and it is Black Friday. Surely you know what’s about to happen. If you do, you figured it out before I did. I’m at a stoplight and when it turns green I attempt to accelerate and there is a pause. It feels like the transmission slipped and couldn’t find the gear. So as I’m driving, I’m trying to figure out where the transmission is in the anatomy of an automobile. My thought process was that maybe the transmission had been bumped by Luis and the Durango or maybe I was leaking transmission fluid. By this time, I’m at another light and my attention is redirected from the anatomy of automobiles to the fact that my car is again not changing gears. It slips into gear but doesn’t do that revving thing that I remember from when Tom’s transmission died (Tom was my sweet little Ford). But my car is slowing, slowing, stopping.

So for the second time that day, I turn on the hazard lights and get out of my car. Remember, the streets are near empty and it’s a relatively industrial area. The rain has started lightly falling again. So I assess the situation. I have to get the car out of the road. There is an entrance to a parking lot just a little ways ahead. So I pop it in neutral, get behind the car and realize fairly quickly that I will be heading uphill to the entrance. I put my hands on the trunk and begin pushing. The road, however, is slick from the rain so rather than the car rolling forward, my feet slide backward. This slide gains momentum and I faceplant on the trunk. This hurts. I decide that I would like to not do that again. So I reposition myself and concentrate on keeping my feet planted and the car begins to move. I get a few feet behind me when I hear someone honking at me. Normally I’m a fairly “look on the bright side” kind of person but at this point the first thought that enters my jaded head is “Who would mock some girl pushing a car by herself in the rain?” I was pleasantly surprised, however, when the honks turned out to be someone letting me know they were stopping to help. I didn’t catch her name and I’m not sure how to describe her. My guess is that she was either raised in farm country where they start working the kids in the fields early in life or a bull dyke (and I say that term with the greatest affection). She told me to get in the car and steer and I questioned her logic. Wouldn’t adding my body weight make it more difficult to push? She looked at me sweetly, like I was a naïve little child, pointed at the driver’s seat and said, “Honey, I’ve pushed vans by myself before.” There was no doubt in my mind that she was totally serious and that the pluralization of the word van was no accident. So I hopped in the driver’s seat and she pushed and we got much closer to the parking lot entrance. Guilt took over, though, and I jumped out of the car. She stopped pushing. I said, “We’re going in a straight line for a little bit and you’ve done enough already. I don’t need to steer. I should push.” She looked like she needed to catch her breath (the van pushing days must have been in her youth). So I started to push. But as soon as my hands hit that trunk, her hands hit that trunk and that car moved pretty darn quickly. So we’re almost to the entrance when a man who looks like a strange hybrid mix between Gandolf and Jerry Garcia “rushes” over to help. At this point I realize I do need to steer. Or the Honda is going to pass the entrance so I get in the driver’s seat and turn the wheel. Much more difficult to do than I originally anticipated so it looks like I may end up in the field on the side of the parking lot. But with one last tug, I make the entrance. This entrance has a decline that gives the ole Honda quite a bit of momentum that I wasn’t expecting so I’m braking. I stop. Gandolf Garcia disappears. And my little van pusher gets in her car. I am hollering “Thank you.” But then realize I don’t know why my car stopped. If it was the transmission, I’m screwed. Mom wasn’t home (I’d called) and I had her cell phone and Kelly was busy at work. But if I was only out of gas, then luck was on my side (well, sort of) because there was a Texaco at the next intersection. I figure there’s only one way to know if it’s out of gas. Put gas in it and see if it goes.

So I open the trunk to grab a fabulous investment that EVERY car should have. The little red “approved container.” I’m startled that my van pushing friend has pulled up next to me but she was just checking that I had a phone or something to call someone to help. I reassured her I’d be fine and again thanked her profusely for her kindness. Then I noticed her traveling companions bouncing around in the backseat. Out of the window pops the head of a darling what I guess is some type of pit bull mix breed pooch and a second later a little dachshund head bobs up and down. She informs me that they are friendly but I could tell they were excited and I felt like if I approached them, the results wouldn’t lean toward the positive side. So I say to the animals that if I were to give them some lovin’ my own baby would be jealous. This sends my van pusher down a path in the form of a story about how the two dogs get jealous when the other is getting attention. I let her know I can relate as my cat and my dog are always competing for my attention. I thank her again and she and her crew drive away.

So I grab my purse, my keys, lock my doors, then grab my little red container and head toward the intersection. Now the other side of the street has a sidewalk. It looks very inviting compared to the mashed grass path on which I would be traveling but that would be jay walking and though I didn’t see any police around Missy’s Law was already in full force. So I opted not to tempt fate and took my muddy path. The next experience makes me laugh. I could hear someone walking behind me, briskly. Not taking the time to consider whether or not I should turn around, I look back at the gentleman behind me. Now, I’m making a lot of assumptions here but this is what it seemed like to me. He sees me see him behind me and he widens his arc around me basically to be as far as he can be from my person and he increases his speed. What it seemed like was that he thought I turned around and saw a black man walking up behind me and he didn’t want to startle me/make me feel defensive. So he made it clear he wanted to be nowhere near me. I guess I just get tickled at the assumptions people, including myself, make about others. Who knows? Maybe he just realized that the path was muddier than the grass since most of the grass had been destroyed by this path and maybe he didn’t want to get muddy. But I still assume he had some image similar to the scene in The Color Purple where Ms. Millie drives Sophia home for Christmas but can’t get the car in gear and when Sophia’s family tries to help, Ms. Millie gets hysterical only seeing several black men coming at her rather than feeling relief that help is coming. There’s no telling what a scared, hysterical white woman will do when she feels threatened. I giggle.

I realize that being lost in thoughts has made my journey to the intersection very quick. I cross one street and then the other and head to the pump. The attendant seemed confused by my desire for gas with a lack of a vehicle and wouldn’t authorize the pump. So I go inside, tell him I’ve run out of gas and need to fill my authorize container. He says, “How much? One gallon?” Frustrated, I reply, “I don’t know. Turn on the pump and we’ll find out.” He did. So, it’s fairly difficult to fill one of those containers when you’re tired, cold, and lacking fine motor skills. A few slips managed to saturate me in gasoline down to the socks. With the gas container full and me flammable, I head back in to pay for the gas. See, if I had prepaid for just one gallon, their company wouldn’t have had the chance to make money on the gas my clothes had absorbed or that had just flat out fallen to the ground. I ask for paper towels and he complies, meanwhile scrunching his nose up making it very clear that I stink of gasoline. I guess he didn’t realize that the gasoline stench was all I could smell and truly there was nothing I could do about it. Anyway, I pay, I wipe off the container, I wipe off where the container had sat on the counter, I wipe off my hands, and he requests that I please discard the paper towels into the container outside of the store part. I laugh again. A gas station attendant who doesn’t like the smell of gas.

So my journey back to the car begins and I opt for the sidewalk this time. If I get a ticket for jaywalking, so be it. So back at the car I learned a valuable lesson that I’d like to impart. The essential little red approved container does have instructions on a sticker on one of the sides. Apparently though the wear and tear of living in a trunk can rub the ink off the sticker in crucial places. And the addition of being wet from gasoline lets some of the ink run together. All information I would have like BEFOREHAND because as I try to figure out by trial and error how the spigot and seal are to be positioned, I’m pouring gasoline down the side of my car. This is not fun and I’m beginning to think I’m going to waste it all and have to walk back up to the Texaco for another jug and another interaction with gas-aversion guy. I mean there aren’t a lot of combinations for the spigot and seal but once you realize the combination isn’t the right one, much gas has escaped. By this point, I realize I am exhausted. I sit down on the parking lot asphalt, in the rain, in the gas, run my fingers through my hair (not a good plan, by the way) and try to pull myself together so I can think straight and do what I need to do. I think logically about the spigot/seal combinations, take another stab at trying to make some sense of the instructions and decide it’s time to get up and give it another try. So having positioned the spigot and seal in what I figured was the most logical way, I aim the spout in the tank and attempt to readjust my body to make it less uncomfortable. Well, I slip on who knows what but it is finally a good thing because apparently those little cans have to be pushed with some force to start releasing the gas from the container into the tank. And it seems my body weight after having fallen in to the damn thing had started the process. Finally success. I’m wrapping up the process when I hear “Hey, you heading to the train?” The DART rail runs directly next to the parking lot I’ve ended up in but it’s elevated so if you’re heading that direction, you’ve got a pretty good hike. A second voice says, “Yep.” The first voice says “Is there an easier way to get up there?” Second voice replies, “Nope.” First voice says, “Damn. Hey, guy, you got a smoke?” Second voice says, “Nah, man.”

At this point I pop up and I think possibly startled these guys. I’d been putting the can thing back to its “not in use” positioning and when I was done, I stood up. So I guess they see nothing then a head pop up. I’d be startled. Anyway, I figure I may as well do something nice because at this point, I’m wondering what I have done so wrong in this life or past life for karma to be kicking my ass around. I grab my pack of cigarettes and say “Hey.” Not loudly enough though. So I repeat “HEY!” They turn and look at me. I said, “Did you say you needed a smoke?” Holding up the pack, they cautiously approach. I said, “Take some but don’t touch my hands. I’m covered in gasoline.” They both thank me and they turn to head back up to the rail. Each of them, though, turned back at different times and smiled and did the head bob thank you thing. I felt good again.

Turns out, transmission is fine but low gas warning light is going to have a serious talking to about falling down on the job. I pull back in to the Texaco because who knows how much gas actually got in to the tank. I fill it up. I see the price and I’m pleasantly surprised. Maybe karma isn’t as angry with me as I originally thought. So I’m in my battered car as I pull in to my mom’s driveway and I notice the pear tree that we planted when we moved into that house 30 years ago is doing the whole autumn leaves changing color thing. It’s beautiful to me.

And I’m a firm believer in acknowledging beauty when we glimpse it because it rarely jumps out at us. So I decide that I want to photograph the beautiful colors. I grab the trusty camera and get a shot but it’s blurry and doesn’t really capture the spectrum of beauty that I’m seeing. So I go to take another. And the camera’s battery dies.

Missy’s Law on Black Friday