The Final Year

(Finally, we’ve reached the end! The time is now! Here’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever done! So far! Oh, and I’ve done away with the present tense bollocks. This tale doesn’t deserve it. On we go!)

#1: The Gas Station of I’M SO STUPID! AARRRGH!!!

So, to make a long story short, I don’t have $7000 of spare cash, which made a very loooong one and a half hour trip out to Santa Monica from the north part of Downtown during rush hour completely fruitless. Had I any inkling that what I was looking for would cost AT MINIMUM all the money I have in the whole world, I would obviously never have attempted the pointless errand. What errand, you ask? What I was trying to do is really not the important thing. What’s important is you know I was sad that what I wanted (and had been looking forward to for several weeks) was completely out of my reach. On to my story.

‘What does this mean for me?’ was the question rattling around in my head after the ingratiating setback. I noted somberly that on top of the impending slog back home through Westside traffic, my car was out of gas. On the corner of Sepulveda Blvd and Santa Monica Blvd is a gas station. Though I am dumb (see above) I can put two and two together. No gas + gas station = go places. Go places = 4. Did I just blow your mind? Forget it. It’s not important. I approached the station uneasily because my car is dirty and all the other cars were shiny Mercedes’ and above, if you know what I mean. There were at least twenty people in the large fueling station, and they all seemed to be leering at me when I drove in. There was one open pump.

A trek to the gas station in my car is a half-hour affair, as my tank is so large that Saudi Arabia sinks by a couple of inches every time I go to the pumps. If you’ve ever tried to watch someone fill a swimming pool with honey using an eyedropper, you’ll have some idea of what it’s like. Man, that was a fun weekend. Anyway, after a dozen minutes thinking about fluids and their flow rates I felt a Pressing Need of my own, and scampered tight-legged into the GREAS-E-MART.

“Dyuhavabathroomnywher?” I asked, clutching my crotch furiously.
“<POINT>,” the man pointed. He was very annoyed at having been interrupted. Reading a fascinating article in InTouch (possibly InStyle, or maybe InAne) about the lamentable conditions of Paris Hilton’s jail cell and how she OHIDON’TCAREIHAVETOPEEFORTHELOVEOF*diety*!

Successfully emptied I walked past the man on the stool who showed me enough courtesy to look up from his enthralling literary piece long enough to make sure the dirty look meant for me was successfully conveyed. I thanked him for his time and strolled outside. I looked for a split second at my surroundings, feeling very poor with my no-good don’t-have-any-money looks-like-a-greenish-pile-of-dirt Isuzu Planetwrecker and the dozen or so shinemobiles looking down their hood ornaments at me. I usually don’t care about that stuff, but I was particularly downtrodden and sensitive to those things at that moment. In disgust I hopped in my car and sped away from the pump.

CRASH

My car was jolted like I’d just run into a dumpster. I looked around for the dumpster. There was no dumpster. There were only very expensive-looking Mercedes. And no, they were not what I’d hit. Everyone was now DEFINITELY looking at me, with an array of expressions running from disgust through bewilderment to utter amusement. I looked instinctively in my rear-view mirror and saw the sickening flailing severed limb of the suddenly very expensive-looking gasoline pump. With horror, I realized that I had driven off with the nozzle still firmly planted into my gas tank. And what was worse – IT HAD STILL BEEN PUMPING.

Daa daa da da da daa! IDIOT SHOW!

Of course, you’re wondering if there was a great spray of gasoline flooding the station behind me. No. Believe it or not, I wasn’t the first to have performed this tricky little maneuver. Clearly, some had come before me as the hose had been severed at a cleverly-designed metal coupling device that not only allows the line to break cleanly, but also (and perhaps more importantly) ceases all fuel flow instantly. I looked at the swinging stump hanging from the top of the pump and double-checked my rear-view mirror to see if the rest of the hose and nozzle was still hanging from my car. It wasn’t. What to do? As far as I could tell, I had three options:

1. RUN!
2. Go in and explain that their pump had broken of its own accord and they should fix it before someone pokes their eye out.
3. Go in and explain that their pump had been broken by a great big ninny and ask how much money they want from my meager college fund.

I, being an omega male, chose option three. This meant, of course, another trip inside to talk to the Paris Hilton fan. Now stopped out in the middle of the thoroughfare through the gas station, I decided to put my car beside the broken pump again. I winced through my forced, jovial grin as I heard the loud crunch of flattening plastic and metal under my tires. There’s the nozzle! Everybody in the station cringed. Sigh.

The Paris guy was in an animated conversation with a customer about the shocking stupidity of some people when I walked in and interrupted their discussion.

“Um, sorry to bother, but I just single-handedly destroyed your gas station (yes, hello there, hi, I’m the one, yes, thanks, sorry, please step aside so I can talk to the nice man on the stool, oh, haha, yes, I know, I’m an idiot, thanks, excuse me…).” All that second stuff was to the small crowd of people in the GREAS-E-MART that I had to wade through to get to the counter. When I reached the altar of Formica, I was greeted with the most charming scowl I’d ever seen. This was a practiced sort of look, reeking of loathing and disdain, supported by a superb confidence in its ability to make even the most aplombable quail, so that I lowered my head and said to the man, “Uh, what do I do now?”

There, again, were a couple of ways I could have seen this going. He might have grumbled loudly at me and told me to go away and never come back. Or, more disturbingly, he might have grumbled loudly at me and told me I’d have to pay for the replacement of his nice, new, digital $10,000 gas pump. I really had no idea. I looked as helpless and apologetic as possible (my own highly practiced look, and, if I may say, quite a match for his scowl). We were like two cage fighters in a stare-down death match. TO THE DEATH! Finally, he heaved a great sigh.
“You must pay damages!”
There went option one.
“Ok.” (apologetic look) “How much will it be?” (helpless)
Great sigh. “Replacement of the pump hose costs $96.00.”
Great sigh from me this time. This was not nearly as bad as I had feared. My formidable ingratiating look had beaten his meanitude. I handed him my debit card in triumph. He seemed to sense my relief and blurted, “You must pay cash!”
“But I haven’t got that much on me!” (double whammy of helpless and apologetic)
“<POINT>” There was an ATM near the end of his finger.

I returned a few moments later, handed the man five twenties, got four ones and a receipt (I asked for) in return, and was finally on my way. I pulled out of the gas station driveway and came to an immediate stop in Santa Monica Blvd traffic with a mixture of sadness and elation. I don’t think I could ever top that one, but I’ve lived a short life, and there are many years of Idiot Show opportunities ahead of me. Maybe someday I’ll have to update this list.