Around the Island

For whom the gas light glows 


I’ve heard the saying, “I’d rather be lucky than smart,” but never really thought about it until a Thanksgiving trip to visit family in Ohio a few years ago. But first, some background.


In the late 70s we had a car with a broken fuel gauge. That meant we had to manually keep track of the number of miles driven. It was easy for my husband, a whiz at math, but it wasn’t easy for a person such as myself who is mathematically challenged. To avoid the math I stopped for gas every 20 miles. 


Fortunately, the car we drive now has a dashboard light shaped like a cute little gas pump that glows bright orange when the fuel supply is low. I have owned that car eight years and have had the gas light glow at me only once. I went directly to a gas station even though my husband informed me that I could have driven another 50 miles before getting gas. 


Oh, no, I could not have done that — it’s not my nature. I was raised to do what I’m told and the get gas light meant “get gas” so I got gas. 


As a result I’ve never had to endure the stress of being stranded in the middle of nowhere, out of gas and at the mercy of the elements and ax murderers who tend to congregate in the middle of nowhere. 


At least not when I’m the one driving; however, (insert long, Bette Davis-type pause here) there was that trip to Ohio one November. While he drove I read the tabloids I’d brought along so I could catch up on my educational reading. How else would I know that the devil escaped from hell through an oil well? (I saw the photograph!) Or about the moon rock that looks exactly like Oprah? (I saw that photo, too!) And then there was the poor guy who survived seven months at sea in a dinghy with nothing except an oar and a paper clip. 


It was during a break in my reading that I happened to look up and see the little gas pump aglow and I wondered for how many miles it had been shining under his nose.


Since I didn’t want to seem like a nag or a backseat driver, I sort of worked it into the conversation as though I was merely making a casual observation like any other I might make while driving through Pennsylvania: “Oh, look! A horse. Oh, look! A barn! Oh, look! A little lighted gas pump!”


“Don’t worry,” we’ve got plenty of gas,” he said as we passed an exit with big “CHEAP GAS HERE!” signs. He passed the next get-gas exit because he didn’t like the brands available, all the while assuring me that we had plenty of gas. 


I trust my husband. He’s clever and he can do math, but when it came to putting my faith in him or the little lighted gas pump, I went with the light.


“Please pull off at the next exit, I can’t stand this!” I begged. So he did, even though the next exit had no “gas here” signs, and as we meandered along ever narrowing country roads I realized that we were going to run out of gas on a dark road in the middle of nowhere. I made a mental note of our supplies: one bottle of Snapple and a Hershey bar. I could survive for a few days, but I felt real bad for Mr. Wizard.


Then I said to myself, wait a minute, what’s the matter with you! Of course I’d share, this was the father of my children, the man who double-checks our tax returns. But then I thought, wait a minute, what’s the matter with him? The man has placed you in peril in Pennsylvania! I stuffed the entire candy bar into my mouth as we drove past nothing except trees and more trees, probably hiding ax murderers. There were no houses or barns, no other cars; only things that looked like bones — probably human bones — alongside the road.


We were doomed. I knew it. So, like the marooned guy who scratched a goodbye message on his oar with the paper clip, I found a pen and started writing a note to our kids on the inside of the tear-stained candy wrapper. “My darling children,” it began, “this is all your father’s fault.” 


As I wrote those words a gas station loomed ahead of us, downhill a little, which was fortunate, because we had to coast to the pump. Mr. Wizard just smiled.


And that’s when I finally figured out what “I’d rather be lucky than smart,” meant.