The One Where I Almost Blew Up the Car

Okay since I forgot to post last week, I knew I needed to have a great story for today. No problem. Here's how I almost blew up the car.

The night before we started moving to Michigan from Florida, I headed out to pick up some dinner for all of us. While I was out, I decided to fill my gas tank so that I'd be ready for leaving first thing in the morning. Luke went with me, and for some reason he decided he needed to pick up a few things while we were there. (Who shops at a gas station?!?)

I got the pump situated and then, while the tank was filling, I leaned into the driver's side of the car to put my debit card back in my purse. While I did that, I heard the pump handle click off. I thought that was weird because it was way too soon for the tank to be full. As I backed out of the car, I could see that the pump handle was still stuck in the tank of my car, but the hose had broken off the handle and was spraying gasoline as it did that snaky whipping back and forth thing that hoses tend to do when no one is controlling them.

I hurried over and grabbed the hose because I didn't think spraying the outside of my car with gasoline was a good thing to do. I tried to turn the hose so that it was spraying towards an empty area of the parking lot, but in no time my car was perfectly centered in a very large puddle of gasoline.

I was wrestling with the hose with one hand while I tried to use my other hand to reach the call button on the pump. When I finally hit it, I yelled, "Pump No. 7 is broken and is spraying gas everywhere! Turn it off!"

There was a moment of static and then, "Could you repeat that, please?"

Obviously the attendant was not going to be my first source of help, so I did the only thing I could think of. I started yelling for help like a true female in distress. A man from one of the other pumps came charging over yelling, "Kink the hose!"

Why hadn't I thought of that? Probably because I was too occupied with giving an excellent imitation of bull riding as I struggled with the hose. The man grabbed the hose and kinked it and just that quickly the rushing spray of gasoline stopped. I stood on the little island the gas pump is mounted on, surrounded by a sea of gas, and stared at my rescuer. The man shoved my driver's side door shut and motioned for me to come toward him, away from the gas and fumes that were everywhere.

With the immediate crisis averted, I used the call button for the gas station attendant again. This time they informed me that they had called the fire department, which was apparently standard procedure when a tank hose starts spraying gasoline everywhere. The attendant then came out and said that kitty litter was usually used to soak up gasoline spills, handing me the smallest bag of kitty litter I'd ever seen. I set the bag down to the side of the river of gasoline my car was swimming in and informed the attendant that the spill wasn't my fault and that I didn't want to pay for all the gas all over his parking lot. He offered me a free soda, but when I turned that down he agreed to comp the price of the gas.

Shortly after that we heard sirens and in no time my vehicle and the gasoline river were boxed in by no less than two fire engines and a paramedics' truck. All the firemen got out and studied the problem from different angles. Then one of them went to tell the attendant we were going to need a lot more kitty litter, and another one headed over to me. They couldn't really get at the spill until the car was out of the way, so would I kindly pull it forward?

That just didn't seem like a good idea to me. What if one spark from the ignition blew up the entire car with me in it? And you don't need to look at me like that. If this had been a TV show, you'd be yelling for me to not start the car because it was going to blow up. You know you would! At any rate, it didn't matter. When my rescuer had slammed my driver's side door shut, he had accidentally locked my keys in my car.

Why is it that I got the blame for that? Everyone seemed to assume that I was the ditzy female who had locked her keys in the car. Now, I may have been yelling for help like a ninny, but I'm not the one that slammed the car door, thank you very much. But since the man had been trying to help me, it seemed rude to point out that it was, in fact, his fault that my keys were locked in the car.

I called my husband to ask him to bring the spare key from the basket of keys on the kitchen counter. I knew the spare was there because I'd seen it right before I left the house. Unfortunately, it had moved by the time my husband looked for it.

Right about that time Luke finished up his purchases and came out of the gas station to find his there mom standing in the middle of the gas station parking lot, surrounded by firemen, all staring at me and my car, floating in a sea of gasoline. His shocked reaction? "What did you do!?!?"

I was getting a little tired of taking all the blame, and it didn't get any better when my husband found the key and brought it to us. He unlocked the car door and handed me my set of keys, then started the car and moved it off by a different pump. Then he stood around joking and laughing with the firemen, gas station attendant, and my rescuer.

This happened four years ago, but I still tend to flinch every time I have to fill the car up again. But hey, now I put my keys in my pocket, and I carry a hefty supply of kitty litter with me, so I should be able to handle it if I ever find my car in the middle of a gasoline river again.

Now if I could just find the spare key ...