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When you run out of gas, don’t panic and follow a few simple rules, basically, don’t do what I did.
Driving home to Carlisle, PA at midnight I, as usual, had to pee. I noted my low fuel light at the start of my trip and about 40 miles later I passed my first gas station… it was called Jiffy and I knew from experience it had no bathroom, screw Jiffy. Next came a BP and I’m not paying 40 cents over the price of regular for my Supreme gas, its 30 cents more or nothing. Then there was a Hess, a Shell, an Exxon… they looked scummy. Citgo is for weirdos. Then I was excited to see a Royal Farms, but why settle for a poor man’s Sheetz? I kept driving, Sheetz popped up… but I knew there was a Wawa just ahead (which is like choosing Target over Walmart). So Wawa would be me and my car’s watering hole. And then all of sudden the acceleration cut off. Music kept blaring… but no go in the gas. I knew I had blown it. I shifted to neutral and this is where you’d like me to say I coasted down a hill to a nice rest in front of Wawa’s pumps, but no, I was on a steep uphill slope and made it all of 20 feet. I pulled over, started my flashers, and immediately jumped out of the car and ran off toward where I believed the nearest gas station would be. I also left my cell phone in the car. And the top down.
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About 1 mile (or perhaps 1/8 mile) I grew very tired and realized I still had to pee. Desperate, on a desolate highway in which there was maybe 1 car a minute I began looking for the best place to relieve myself. In honor of my Michelin working buddy I picked the side of a “Goodyear Retreading Facility”. I came over a hill and saw a Citgo and felt so relieved, but under closer inspection being that it was Sunday and God doesn’t pump gas on Sunday the pumps were all off. I continued on my way and maybe another 15 minutes I found myself stumbling in to Wawa. I asked the monsters behind the counter if they had a container to fill for transport of gas and they said they would ask the manager. The manager came out and looked like he was missing all of his neck bones as his head leaned completely on his shoulder. “Youuu caaannn buuyyy a containnneerrrr” he spoke in a long drawn out breath as if it took all his managerial expertise to construct the sentence. I didn’t care, I wanted to get back to the car. A man by the counter eyed me over and saw I was exhausted and offered to give me a ride. I was very thankful and asked if I could buy his cigarettes, which he declined. This guy was almost seven feet tall, had the nine biggest states in the US on his belt buckle and drove a F850 that sat 20 feet off the ground with a forest of dead creatures in the truck bed.
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We drove down a ways talking a bit and came across my car on the other side of the road lights still flashing. He made a comment about the small car and its top down. I knew he didn’t approve. We walked to the car and assuming I was the wimpy man I clearly was in my Kenneth Coles and Banana Republic he took over the gas filling business. I felt like a 16 year old girl. Embarrassed I shook his hand and thanked him but he said he wanted to wait to make sure I could get started. I turned over the engine and music came blasting from the speakers and it was some horribly feminine Enrique Iglesias song like “Gusta Come Mi Carne de Hombre”. Bronco the philanthropist immediately walked away disgusted he had helped me.
I drove back to the Wawa, filled up and even offered the quasimanager to keep the recently bought gas tank since I had no need for it anymore, which he declined because it was now “used” … which hurt my brain too much to argue. I stuffed the container in my front seat and took off now learning that this was not the proper way to run out of gas.
![]()
Driving home to Carlisle, PA at midnight I, as usual, had to pee. I noted my low fuel light at the start of my trip and about 40 miles later I passed my first gas station… it was called Jiffy and I knew from experience it had no bathroom, screw Jiffy. Next came a BP and I’m not paying 40 cents over the price of regular for my Supreme gas, its 30 cents more or nothing. Then there was a Hess, a Shell, an Exxon… they looked scummy. Citgo is for weirdos. Then I was excited to see a Royal Farms, but why settle for a poor man’s Sheetz? I kept driving, Sheetz popped up… but I knew there was a Wawa just ahead (which is like choosing Target over Walmart). So Wawa would be me and my car’s watering hole. And then all of sudden the acceleration cut off. Music kept blaring… but no go in the gas. I knew I had blown it. I shifted to neutral and this is where you’d like me to say I coasted down a hill to a nice rest in front of Wawa’s pumps, but no, I was on a steep uphill slope and made it all of 20 feet. I pulled over, started my flashers, and immediately jumped out of the car and ran off toward where I believed the nearest gas station would be. I also left my cell phone in the car. And the top down.
About 1 mile (or perhaps 1/8 mile) I grew very tired and realized I still had to pee. Desperate, on a desolate highway in which there was maybe 1 car a minute I began looking for the best place to relieve myself. In honor of my Michelin working buddy I picked the side of a “Goodyear Retreading Facility”. I came over a hill and saw a Citgo and felt so relieved, but under closer inspection being that it was Sunday and God doesn’t pump gas on Sunday the pumps were all off. I continued on my way and maybe another 15 minutes I found myself stumbling in to Wawa. I asked the monsters behind the counter if they had a container to fill for transport of gas and they said they would ask the manager. The manager came out and looked like he was missing all of his neck bones as his head leaned completely on his shoulder. “Youuu caaannn buuyyy a containnneerrrr” he spoke in a long drawn out breath as if it took all his managerial expertise to construct the sentence. I didn’t care, I wanted to get back to the car. A man by the counter eyed me over and saw I was exhausted and offered to give me a ride. I was very thankful and asked if I could buy his cigarettes, which he declined. This guy was almost seven feet tall, had the nine biggest states in the US on his belt buckle and drove a F850 that sat 20 feet off the ground with a forest of dead creatures in the truck bed.
We drove down a ways talking a bit and came across my car on the other side of the road lights still flashing. He made a comment about the small car and its top down. I knew he didn’t approve. We walked to the car and assuming I was the wimpy man I clearly was in my Kenneth Coles and Banana Republic he took over the gas filling business. I felt like a 16 year old girl. Embarrassed I shook his hand and thanked him but he said he wanted to wait to make sure I could get started. I turned over the engine and music came blasting from the speakers and it was some horribly feminine Enrique Iglesias song like “Gusta Come Mi Carne de Hombre”. Bronco the philanthropist immediately walked away disgusted he had helped me.
I drove back to the Wawa, filled up and even offered the quasimanager to keep the recently bought gas tank since I had no need for it anymore, which he declined because it was now “used” … which hurt my brain too much to argue. I stuffed the container in my front seat and took off now learning that this was not the proper way to run out of gas.
