When we left Scottie last, he was dead, no gas and parked at The Bicycle Business on Franklin Boulevard.
I did go to rescue him the very next day. My childhood BFF, Sarah, who job-shares her first grade teaching position, happened to be off that day and ever so kindly picked me up and took me to Scottie.
Before she came to get me, I had to arrange for some gas. There’s a gas station and convenience store (a.k.a Ghetto Mart) around the corner from my house. Good thing they have gas cans. I buy one, pay for the gas and go out to the pump.
A truck parked at the pump for which I had pre-paid. OK, do this quick, it’s just one gallon. I struggle to rip plastic and pull the cap off the gas can. When it comes off with a yank, the pouring tube falls down inside the can.
Instead of pumping gas when the truck man comes out, I am fiddling with the gas can, its tube rattling around inside. I try to use my pointer finger to press the tube against the side of the can to drag it out.
I try to pinch the edge of the tube with my thumb and pointer finger.
I try to shake the thing out.
Truck man brings me a pair of needle nose pliers. We take turns trying to use them to grab the tube.
The gas station lady comes out, and she tries to get the tube out. Well, she really just looks at it and hands it back to me.
I take the can, turn it upside down and peer inside. The tube is resting right at the opening. I tap it slightly with my pointer finger, and it slides right out.
I pump the gas. Sarah comes to get me. And we go to rescue Scottie.
Except. Once Scottie had a full tank of gas, he didn’t want to go. He started right up, but then died. We went about 20 feet, full throttle, and he sputtered out. We did this about 5 times before I told Sarah that Scottie must be mad at me for abandoning him.
I ask the bike guys if Scottie can stay there one more day and Sarah takes me back home.