I turned the key several times and then, I do not know why I did it, but I glanced at the gas gauge and the arrow was pointing way beyond the E. My gas tank was about as empty as my bank account. It is bad to run out of gas, but the worst thing for me about running out of gas is calling the Gracious Mistress of the Parsonage and asking her for help. I would walk 100 miles not to tell her I am out of gas.
She always comes and bails me out. However, for the next six months I am reminded and reminded and reminded to put gas in my tank.
Thursday also had its issues. My wife wanted me to go to the store and pick up something and for some reason, I cannot remember it now, I used her car. Maybe it was because I did not want to run out of gas!
I got to the store, paid for my purchase, came out and tried finding my truck. I walked up and down and my truck was nowhere in sight. The only thing I could think of at the time was that somebody had stolen my truck.
I thought about calling the police, and then I thought better and decided I would call my wife first. You know what it is like when your wife hears something secondhand. And so I called her.
“I can’t find my truck,” I said trying to keep my voice as calm as possible not to get her upset, “I think somebody stole it. Should I call the police?”
Silence on the phone. Then I heard her say in a very calm voice, “Whoever stole your truck parked it in our driveway.”
I then remembered I was driving her car.