LIVING LIFE ON THE 'E'

I’ve got a serious problem, and I’m sort of at a loss as to what to do about it. Therapy, electro-shock, a week of watching the Lifetime channel -- I’m not really sure the course to take.

This problem happens to be one of those male quirks that drives women crazy, and not necessarily in a good way. More like in a yelling, name-calling, suspension of marital relations sort of way.

You see, I enjoy running our car’s gas gauge down to E, then coaxing it into the nearest gas station as the thirsty engine sucks up the last drop of petrol in the tank.

Of course my wife thinks I’m totally insane and isn’t afraid to say so. Nor is she shy about her choice of adjectives in such moments. In fact, they tend to leave her mouth at a rate of speed that increase as the speed of our car decreases.

Why do I insist on playing this game? Is it some twisted form of male competition? Or, perhaps, could it be related to a man’s desire to conquer his environment?

I don’t know, but what I do know is, it’s been difficult to change my ways -- especially now that we own an automobile with a computer display that keeps a running tab on the number of miles left before empty.

No more eyeing the needle and guessing where E truly lies. Is it when the needle first hits the E, or when it moves all the way through the E? If so, can the needle possibly move past the E?

These intriguing questions no longer matter, as I simply need to glance at the display to learn I have eight more miles until empty.

In fact, this happened just the other day. I was taking the family to the mall for a bit of holiday shopping. As we pulled out of the driveway, my wife noticed the computer display.

“Eight miles till empty,” she notes. “You better head right to a gas station.”

“Oh, come on,” I reply, “the mall is only about five miles away. There’s a bunch of gas stations right there.”

“Do you have to do this every time?”

As I feign innocence, we pull up to a stoplight. The display now says six miles remaining.

“Oh, great! You used two miles worth of gas to go a half mile.”

To play with her a little bit, I rev the engine a couple times.

The reading drops to five miles. Oops.

As we start moving I hear: “I’m gonna hurt you if we run out of gas!”

“Come on, we’re only four miles away.” Still, I push on the gas pedal gingerly, trying to conserve our precious supply.

We turn onto the back road leading to the mall. Only two miles away, but there won’t be a gas station until we arrive. The reading says three miles left.

Less than a mile away, we pull up to the final stoplight on the road to salvation (otherwise known as Mobil). Two miles left in the tank.

Then, as we sit there, the reading suddenly drops to ZERO!

My wife and kids start screaming. It reminds me of that movie “Home Alone” when Macaulay Culkin slaps after shave on his face.

“Ahhhhh!!!”

Yet, when the light turns green and I lightly tap the gas pedal, we begin to move forward.

With beads of sweat dotting my forehead and my wife pounding my arm with her fist, I spot a gas station on the horizon. Almost there.

Suddenly, the engine begins to hesitate. The four of us feel it and, in unison, we lean forward, as if this will improve our momentum.

The gas pedal goes limp, and we begin to coast. I look out my window and watch a dog run past us.

Yet, all is not lost -- the gas station is just ahead. Unfortunately, traffic is backed up beyond the entrance. If I have to hit the brakes, we're done for.

Then, like a small miracle, traffic begins to move and we roll into the station -- only to find every pump occupied.

A few minutes later, as I push our big SUV up to the pump beneath the evil glare of my wife and kids, I smile a little smile, knowing I have taken it to the limit and survived to drive another day.

(c) Marc L. Prey 2002
All rights reserved.