On the Highway It was a cold winter night 40 years ago. I was driving home on a four-lane road with a median stripe. Aside from some large cargo trucks rumbling through, it was a deserted part of the small city. I had known that the needle of the gas meter had been down to E for a while, but I thought there should be enough gas in the tank to carry me home. I had actually passed a gas station 10 minutes earlier only to find it was closed. I heard my car make a clattering sound, and it started to slow down to my horror. I managed to pull the car over so that it wouldn't bother others. Then the car completely came to a halt. Four decades ago means no cell phone to call for help. I looked around hoping to find a payphone. There was none. Then I spotted a red and navy sign shining far away. “That's Esso!” I thought. I buttoned up my coat and got out of the car. The Esso station looked like it was on the other side of the road. Thus, I thought I had to cross the median somewhere. In the piercing wind, with my skirt fluttering, I started to walk toward the sign. This was 40 years ago, remember? I was a young girl back then. Some truck drivers honked and passed me. Fortunately, there was a zebra crossing on the way so that I didn't need to climb over the median strip. It took me about 20 minutes to get to the Esso stand. There was a middle-aged attendant there, and he looked startled to see a girl with no car walking in. I explained the situation and asked if he could drive me to my stranded car with some fuel. He said that he was the only attendant and couldn't possibly leave the store unmanned. He pointed at a large plastic container in the corner, and said I could carry it to the car with some gasoline. I said I didn't think I could walk for another 20 minutes with that container full of gas. He said he would make it only half-full, and added a request to make sure I'd bring it back later, so that's what I did. On my way back to the car, I cursed myself for not asking him to make it a quarter-full or even less.
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