Got a gig in Saginaw tonight. Stopped in Grand Rapids for lunch with Jimmy Pardo and Steve Iott and had such a good time I waited
until the last minute to leave. Rushing, got on highway before I remembered - almost out of gas. There was bad traffic. I tried to get off at the next exit but there was worse traffic there, so I got right back on. No time to spare. Couldn't afford to lose a half hour here. Right back on. But then no more gas stations. Empty farm land the next
three exits. Finally a sign: GAS FOOD
2 MILES. But then my car starts chugging and slowing down. Shit! No. I pump the gas. It doesn't help. Fuck! I turn on the hazards. Pump pump. Nothing. Slowing down too much. I pull over to the shoulder. No brake. Let's go as long as possible. Come on. Engine dies. Roll, damn it. Roll. It rolls a while, but when it finally stops the exit is still far in the distance, probably a mile and a half.
No time for AAA. I get out and start running towards the exit.
An SUV pulls off onto the shoulder in front of me. Help. Great. I get in without thinking about it. Once I'm in I remember the dangers of hitching. I tell the guy I'm a comedian and he's saving me because I might have been late for my gig. He asks me to tell him a joke, but when I pause to think of one, he tells me one. I'm only half-listening, busy sizing him up, trying to figure whether he's a serial killer and also what kind of joke he'd like. I tell him a cute g-rated one. Then he tells another. I can't think of any more clean street jokes. I'm trying to decide if I should chance a dirty one, but then we start talking, and then we're at the station. He apologizes he can't wait and take me back, says he's in a hurry himself.
I go in, remembering some comic I saw railing against a gas station for not selling gas cans. I can't find any, and this one has a lot of auto accessories. A whole wall of stuff. Two different kinds of funnel but no gas can.
I ask at the counter. Young woman asks older woman, "Where's that gas can we give out with a deposit?"
"Gone." My heart sinks.
Guess the deposit wasn't big enough. Clock is ticking. Young woman says, "Give me a minute and I'll check if I've got one in my car."
I wait. I start looking around the store for something I can use. Maybe a two liter pop bottle? Or a windshield washer fluid bottle? But I'm not sure if the residue that will be left after I pour it out would hurt my engine when it mixes with the gas. I see the young woman go out and I follow. She lights a cigarette and stands talking with two other employees. I stand next to them and try to catch her eye. What the fuck? Remember me? From sixty seconds ago? She glances my way, but doesn't acknowledge me and continues in the conversation. Frustrated, I went back inside.
I look around some more. What to use? I settle on a big gulp sized cup (44 oz.). I take two, in case it leaks, and a plastic lid. I take a big red funnel.
I see a lot of people inside and out and consider asking various customers for help, but away from my car with the blinkers on, where my need isn't apparent, it feels more of an imposition. It's not shyness so much as urgency and the knowledge that I'm going to have to do a lot of explaining and look like a nut and get a lot of "no"s. I go out and use my credit card at the pump and fill the cup. The gas comes out hard and I have to hold the lever very gently. The gas is a pale clear yellow, like weak urine. I expected it to be darker. I fill up the cup to about a half inch from the top and put the lid on. I look at the digital pump display - a third of a gallon. Would that be enough to get it started? Well the car gets 30 miles to the gallon, so a third should get me ten and I only have to go one, right? It should be okay.
I realize I didn't pay for the funnel. Fuck it. I'll pay when I get back.
Should I ask around for a ride back? Just go. It's only a mile. I start walking fast, over the overpass. Walking is frustrating when you've got a lot of distance to cover and you're in a hurry. Down to the wide circular ramp. I decide to cut across to save time. I step into the grass and my foot sinks 8 inches. It's more like a field. I walk across trying to hold the cup steady. The ground is uneven and it's very windy out. A misjudgment of the lay of the ground and I slosh a little gas over my right hand holding the cup. I wonder if it's dangerous to have it on my skin. It doesn't burn or anything. Not yet. I don't want to wipe it on my pants though and smell like gas all night. I keep going. I slosh some more over and realize the lid is cracked. A little further and I realize the gas sloshing against the lid is dissolving it. I wonder if it's because the plastic is now made to biodegrade faster. Fucking environmentalists.
Worried about what dissolved plastic might do to the fuel, I take the lid off and drop it in the tall whatever it is I'm walking in. I don't like to litter, but I'm not about to pocket a partly dissolved plastic lid covered with gasoline. I get to the end of the circle and after a couple cars pass on the ramp, I cross it and start walking along the dirt side of the shoulder. Where’s my car? I squint in its direction but I can't see anything. Not even my hazards blinking. I walk.
I'm moving as quickly as I can, trying to hold the cup steady. Every once in a while a little gas sloshes onto my hand. The wind is blowing very strong against me. I figure it's probably good so I'm not breathing too many fumes. A small misstep shakes the cup and an inch of gas is lost. Shit! Steady… Concentrate.
I walk. And walk. I still can't see my car. I look back and the overpass is pretty far. Shouldn't I be able to see the blinkers by now? Walk, walk. Next to the worry and frustration, there's a part of me not bothered by this, a part that's pleased to have something out of the ordinary happen. An adventure. A road story. I'm having a road story. I walk.
The sun is setting ahead of me and to the left over the tree line. Another big slosh and I lose another inch. Shit! The cup is just over half full now. It's not going to be enough. It's got to be enough. I can still probably make it to the club on time if I haul ass. What time is it? I want to pull out my cell phone and check, but I don't. It won't help to know. I have to keep going no matter what time it is. Anyway I can't put the cup down in this wind.
There's no sense of accomplishment walking along the highway. On my left is an unchanging background, an open field. On my right, the speeding cars make me seem inert.
The wind blows cold on my gas-wet fingers. Finally I think I see my car in the distance. I'm not sure. It's just a tiny gray wisp. It could be a car on the highway. Walk walk walk. I didn't think this would take so long. How long is it? What time is it? Sun's getting lower. I walk.
This isn't enough gas. I think of the miracle of Chanukah. One night of oil lasts eight. Come on, God, let's do it again. But it's no use praying. God knows I'm an atheist.
Walk walk. I'm pretty sure that's my car. A little further and I can make out the hazards. Come on. I just want to be there already. I'm rushing and I don't even know if this will work. I should've asked around for help. Who cares if it's embarrassing? Better than missing a gig. Jesus, I've never missed a gig before. I gotta make it. Maybe I should have called a taxi? But taxis can take a half hour in small towns. Fuck. Come on, let's get there already. Getting closer. How far is it now? A couple blocks? It's hard to judge on open road.
The last part is the hardest. Once I can see the car, I just want to be at it. Let's go.
Finally I'm there. The gas cap is on the side of the traffic and the shoulder's not that wide. I'm nervous to fill the tank with just a foot between me and the lane stripe. I should have pulled over farther, let my right wheels go onto the grass a little. I want to put the car in neutral and push it over but I can't put the cup down anywhere for fear of spilling it. I'm not going to lose it right next to the car. I have ironyphobia and expect things like that to happen. As if life worked like a B-movie or TV show, where cops die on retirement day and the plane you rush and just barely make it onto crashes.
I wait for a break in traffic and open the gas tank carefully holding the cup with one hand. Some cars and a truck thunder by and the wind slaps my back. I shield the gas with my body. I pick up the funnel and put it in and pour in what's left of the gas. Please be enough. I screw the gas cap back and get in.
Come on. Do it. Turn over. I turn off the hazards, and turn the key. It chugs but doesn't turn over. Shit. I try again, pumping the gas. Nope. Fuck. I try again pumping for 5-10 seconds. Nothing. I stop. I'm afraid of burning out the starter and that I'm using the last of the gas. I get out and lean on the back bumper and lift it up and down. Maybe if I shake the car a little I can get the little bit of gas where it needs to be. I get back in and try again. No dice. One more time and then I give up. Fuck.
I look at the time - it's 6:20. If I left right now I'd probably make it, but I'm not going anywhere. I surrender to it - I'm going to miss a show. The headliner got me this booking and I'm gonna let him down. Time to face the music. I call what I thought was his cell phone and get his wife. I tell her what happened and that it looks like I'm going to miss the first show. She says she'll relay the message if he calls. I call the club and tell the owner. Jack. He doesn't seem upset. He has a sort of passive grandpa quality to him. I tell him I'll hopefully be there for the second show. I give him my cell phone number and my phone beeps. Low battery. Shit - I still have to call AAA. I plug it in to the cigarette lighter, but the charging indicator doesn’t come on. He asks my name again. I say, "It's Dan Kaufman."
"Stan?"
"No. Dan."
"Okay, and how do you spell the last name?"
"K-A-U-F-M-A-N."
"C-O-"
"No. K-A."
"C-"
Louder now. "No, K." Another low battery beep.
"C?"
"NO! K! Like…" What's a good K word? "Killer!" As the word comes out of my mouth, I try to give it a friendly tone so I don't sound like a psycho. I finish spelling my name as loudly and clearly as possible. Why is he writing it down anyway??
"Okay. Stan Kaufman."
"No, Dan! D, like David - A-N."
I apologize again for missing the show and tell him I'll call again when I know more.
Why isn't my cell phone charging? I turn the ignition key to the halfway place where the radio works. My phone lights up as if it's charging, but it beeps and in a second says, "stop - not charging." It actually has a message to say not charging? I leave it plugged in hoping that'll give me a little more time.
I call AAA. After a few voice mail prompts and a long minute on hold, I get an agent. She takes my information and asks where I am. I tell her. "That's in Michigan," she says.
"Yes."
"Well this is the Chicago office. You have to talk to Michigan. Hold on, I'll connect you."
I sit on hold for a long minute. Another low battery beep.
"Hello, AAA, may I have your member number, please?"
"Is this the Michigan office?"
"No, it's Wisconsin."
Jesus Christ! I ask for Michigan and for the direct number just in case.
Finally I get Michigan. The rep is in no hurry so I explain my phone might go out any second. I manage to give her all the particulars before she puts me on hold and before she comes back the phone finally dies. Please don't screw it up, lady.
Cars are zooming by and it's getting dark. I put my hazards back on. I hope the car battery holds out. Every time the hazards blink off, the hatch-open light blinks on. Something's definitely screwed up with the electrical system.
A car pulls off the road in front of me, jerks back towards me and swerves around me to stop on the grass to my right. It's a beat-up old clunker with the rear fender tied on. I get out and meet the driver. He's a big guy, maybe 6'3" and broad. He's wearing old jeans and an olive green t-shirt. He's got short and messy dark hair and multiple face piercings, including a post through his lower lip, but his face seems friendly.
I tell him my situation. He offers to take me to the gas station. But I’m not sure I want to get in the car with him. He seems okay, but between it getting dark out and the beat-up car and the face piercings, I'm wary. I tell him I've got a call in to AAA and I don't want to leave in case they show up.
"Can I give you some money to get the gas and I'll wait here?" I pull out a ten and offer it. He hesitates, but then agrees.
He goes. I put my car in neutral and push it farther away from the traffic. I get back in the car to stay warm. I wonder if he'll come back. I think he will. He seemed okay. Wow. It’s a good thing I put the hazards on when I did. A minute later and he would have missed me.
I fiddle with my phone charger for a while but I can't get it going.
Impatient, I get out to watch for him. After a few minutes he honks at me going in the opposite direction. Cool. Another couple minutes and he's back. He opens his trunk and pulls out a plastic gallon milk jug. Well at least that funnel will serve some purpose. I put it in the tank and hold it while he pours.
He asks me, "Is this car fuel injected?"
"I don't know." I'm embarrassed to admit it.
"I have to save a little." He stops pouring with an inch of gas left. I don't know what's going on. I don't know why I feel ashamed of knowing so little about cars. I don't feel ashamed when I have to call tech support for my computer. But automotive ignorance makes me feel like a male impersonator. He tells me to try to start it. I do and it won't. I get a sinking feeling. There's something wrong here that has nothing to do with the gas. I'm fucked. It's probably connected to the electrical problems…
He tells me to pop the hood. I do and he takes out the air filter and drizzles some gas into a mesh covered hole beneath it. The carburetor? I try starting it again. Nothing. He tells me not to pump it, just hold the gas pedal down steady. I do. He keeps drizzling the remaining gas in. It starts!
Suddenly a daily phenomenon I’ve taken for granted seems like a victory. My car is running. I get out and thank him profusely. Here’s the awkward part. Do I offer him money? I don’t want to insult him, but he doesn’t look rich. What if he was hoping for a tip? I don’t want to stiff him. I ask. “Can I give you something?”
He says, “Do whatever you feel, man.” I take that as a yes and give him twenty bucks. We shake hands and say our goodbyes and he’s gone.
I pull onto the road and in no time cover the distance it just took me so long to walk. It was closer to two miles. I return to the gas station, fill up and pay for the stolen funnel.
Back on the highway, I’m driving 75-80 (speed limit’s 65). There’s no way I’ll be on time, but I could still make it before the show’s over and maybe do my time after the headliner. I’ve heard about that happening before. I want to check my directions. I reach up and flick the interior light switch, but it doesn’t go on. More electrical glitches. It’s completely dark out and I can’t read without some light. I time looking at the map with passing cars. As they come up behind me I have a few seconds of light to read by.
I remember AAA. They might have someone out looking for me. I pull over at the next rest stop and call them to cancel the order. I try to call the club to tell them I'm on the way, but this time just get a recording. No mention of who's there, just the same thing they play year round. I leave a message and get back on the road. The ride in is almost as agonizing as the walk to my car. An hour and a half is a long time to rush.
Finally I arrive at the club. There's no big sign out front so I miss it on the first pass. The street is quiet and empty. It's 9:20 and the first show's probably over. I feel lousy to have blown it. Unprofessional. I go in and the place looks like the outside of a school auditorium. There are some steps straight down and a staircase going up and no sign indicating a comedy show anywhere. And no people. I take the stairs up two at a time, listening for the sounds of a show letting out or finishing up, but it's quiet. I see a big set of double doors and go through. The room I enter is enormous, must be over a hundred feet in each direction and 30 foot ceilings. It looks like an Elk's Lodge from the forties, but how would I know what an Elk's lodge from the forties looks like? The stage at the other end is high and full-sized with a red velvet curtain. The floor is covered with small round tables and chairs front to back. To my right is a window to a bar and two sullen waitresses slumped at a table, smoking. They're plump and wearing skimpy, shiny Halloween getups. They are the only other people in the room.
An old man comes in wearing a tie and jacket and a toupee that looks like it was dropped on from twenty feet up. Must be the guy I talked to - Jack. The owner. I shake his hand, introduce myself and apologize for being late.
"Guess everyone left already?"
"Oh no," he says. "No one came. We cancelled the first show. Looks like we're going to cancel the second one too."
October 27, 2000