Moving Gas

Like most of you, I am relieved to see gasoline prices return (somewhat) to earth. It is truly disheartening to stand at the pump and witness the pay amount meter whiz by as the gallon gauge strains to reach the one dollar mark. With each spin of the wheel, I feel the contents of my pocket evacuating like a third quarter crowd at a New York Knicks game.

Last night I was watching a rather grisly horror film produced in 1991 in which the lead fiend performs an involuntary surgical procedure on a terrified filling station attendant. As bloodied anatomical parts randomly landed on the dormant petrol pump signange, I gasped, "Unleaded, .118 per gallon?" When was this movie made, 1928?" Unfazed by the condition of the sectionalized grease monkey, I remained shocked and horrified by the bloodstained pricing.

Gas mileage ratings have become a pivotal selling point for most automobiles, a vast departure from the mid-seventies when I started driving. However, there were those visionaries who saw gasoline conservation as an important issue even during that era.

In the summer of 1978, my friend Jeff bought a nearly new Volkswagen Bug for the tidy sum of $2650.00 and proceeded to drive everyone crazy with his daily tales of superior gas mileage. At the time I was driving a 1968 Mercury Cougar which hemorrhaged gas and oil like a crippled Exxon tanker when standing idle in my driveway and Jeff was working on my last nerve. Enlisting the aid of my friend Neil (also planning to strangle Jeff), we devised a way of putting this boast-fest to a quick end.

Our plan was simple. Each night for a week we would sneak over to Jeff's garage and carefully fill his gas tank to the brim by means of a five gallon can and a funnel. Any spilled evidence might give us a way. The next day we would go to Jeff's house and sit wide-eyed as he regaled us reports of 60-80 miles per gallon. Roundtrips to visit his parents in far-off New Jersey required nary a quart of propellant! Jeff had purchased the perfect vehicle.

The next week Neil and I launched Phase Two of our plan removing five gallons from Jeff's tank each night and relocating the fuel in one of our cars the next morning. Suddenly Jeff was quiet, even complaining about his ride. Jeff brought his Bug to several mechanics he knew all of whom saw no discernable problems. Now the "crazy" was on the other foot.

Finally, Phase Three found us completely emptying Jeff's tank and filling it up the next day (we had to make two round trips on that one). We even left our five gallon bucket next to his car with a present from the "Gas Fairy" one night. After almost three weeks, we suspended operations. Both of us had swallowed enough gas to fill-up a Greyhound Bus (while siphoning) and our breath smelled like 87 octane. Attending a cook-out was out of the question. It was time to stop.

We confessed our sins to Jeff and, like any good friend, he cussed us out thoroughly and damned us for coveting thy neighbors fuel. Eventually he forgave us and, as ushers at his wedding, we drained the get-away limo for old time sake (his wife Debbie banned us from their house (and garage) soon after).

For those of you who have a friend or neighbor who is driving a fuel efficient car and enjoys crowing about the economic virtues of his or her vehicle, please refrain from re-enacting our three phase plan. Other than torturing our dear friend for a few weeks (which is always fun), little was gained. However, I can report that I am still able to re-light my own birthday candles every year with a big, strong, gust from the lungs. I wonder if Neil can claim the same?