The two of them were standing, silhouetted in the brown streetlight. I couldn't see their faces. Traffic was rushing through the green light, battering the side of the old Accord in its wake, blowing tags off the trunklid. A teenage boy and his girlfriend, fussing over a brand new plastic carry-can full of gasoline. He was examining the nozzle trying to understand how this all went together. She had noticed my puzzled passing glance, saw her opportunity, and flagged me down.
(Why me? Why does the world interested in me all of a sudden? First there was that bunch of forlorn looking kids sitting on a pickup tailgate out of the trailhead up by the school, trying to wave me in. They got a curt nod for their pains; I had to get someplace. Then when I got home I stumbled into the acquaintance of my vertical-kittycorner neighbor whilst standing out on the street wiping bug flakes off my windshield. Talked to him for a good five minutes. I tell you, I have had more social interaction in the last 24 hours than I normally have in a month.)
"I might. Lets take a look." It's cold, it's dark, I want to go home and go to bed. This better be simple. I set my helmet on the trunk lid of her car, swung the backpack with my drafting materials down into the street, and picked up the instructional label.
I wasted about 30 seconds trying to decipher the illustration. The various nozzles, gaskets and plugs that came with this amazingly complex marine auxiliary gas-can assembly made no sense to me whatsoever. Either some part was missing or it was a flawed design. "Wow, this is a problem. I have no idea what this is about, man. Let's try this instead:"
I picked up the brimmingly full plastic jug and set one of the spouts into the fuel nozzle of the car. I began to pour the can into the nozzle.
"We tried that but it's kinda overfull so it was spilling all over the place." she volunteered.
"Yeah, well this is going to be the best way for you guys to get out of here. This should work. It's going to make a mess, ok?" Fuel began to splash down onto the street, bathing my hands and shoes.
No comment from either. "I'm hungry..." she murmured to her friend with a stifled giggle. I had judged correctly. They were more interested in getting out and getting dinner than washing the back fender of the car with gas, or watching a stranger wash his shoes with it. I continued to pour, carefully. The splashing lessened. I estimated that about a gallon and a half found its way into the car's fuel tank, and set the empty can on the trunk lid. "Good luck guys, have a good night."
I collected my stuff and walked off. Crap, now my hands smell like gasoline. Now the hand holding my helmet is going to make my helmet smell like gasoline. I shifted my helmet under my left arm and tried not to touch anything.
The Accord's motor cranked and cranked as I walked away. It was still cranking as I stood on the corner pushing the pedestrian-walk button. They're Californians, I said to myself, they won't crank the car long enough to suck fuel back up into the engine; they'll try for five seconds, run out of patience and give it up for lost for no reason at all.
Strangely, the starter whr-whr-whr continued, clearly audible over the traffic. Keep cranking it, that's right girl, keep cranking it. There's no fuel in the carb floats, that's why its not starting, but if you keep cranking it it will start. Not that you could possibly know what carbs or floats are. The cranking stopped. I looked back down the street. Don't give up, you silly girl. It will start if you try one more time. Try one more time....
The old car fired into life and pulled away, and I breathed a little sigh of relief. Now I can go home and go to bed instead of mothering some nameless teenager home. Lord knows my big brother instincts would have me putting those poor kids on a bus before I realized it was not my problem.
Those poor kids who couldn't get their hands dirty (whose mothers probably used to yell at them for getting their hands dirty)...who would have spent all night trying to figure out how to put a gas-can together instead of making a mess but getting themselves out of the situation....
....(pats self on back. Good big brother. Good)....
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