I ran out of gas on my way to visit my friend Ann a few years ago, and luckily the car sputtered out one mile from her home. When I was living in California for four months, I ran out of gas and had a lovely adventure finding faith in Bolineas. I’ve run out of gas other times on highways, having to hike to a gas station, one of my few experiences hitchhiking.

So this shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

Almost two weeks ago, I was headed to Iowa to teach a class when the gas pump light blazed alive, the light that means, Seriously, Find A Gas Station Now.”

I had been chatting with my editor, Rhyss, catching up after a few weeks of not chatting at all, no daily edits exchanged. Rhyss found me online in 2007, and after reading some of my online fiction, offered to edit my work, help me prepare for publication. This woman has edited literally hundreds of pages, countless hours, because she thinks I should get published.

“Uh oh.” I said into my blue tooth. “I’m out of gas.”

She suggested I call her back after I pulled over and fill up.

“Remember when I said I was calling you from the middle of nowhere, Minnesota?” I said.

Cornfields and farmland surrounded me. Yes, I was on a major highway, and yes, a gas station would show up in somewhere between 10 and 20 miles. But for right now, nothing was near. I had vague notions of a green highway sign promising the next town away somewhere in the double digits. I had even warned Rhyss a moment prior that our cell phone connection could break up any minute, due to the extreme lack of towns.

“What does your GPS say about the nearest gas station?” she asked.

“I don’t have a GPS.”

“What about triple A?” she asked.

“Not a member.”

Rhyss launched a tirade about the insanity of traveling long distances without being prepared. “You seriously don’t carry a GPS?” she marveled. “You know they’re only, like, $200?”

I grumbled.

“Didn’t you know you were low on gas when you left Minneapolis?” she asked.

“Sure, but I figured I’d get cheaper gas out here in the country.” I explained. “Then I kinda forgot. We got catching up, and I was having fun with you on the phone…”

It’s amazing to me that after running out of gas so fabulously, so regularly, I never seem to learn a lesson. I mean, the big lesson about being prepared, or just looking at the gas gauge, or maybe the lesson is about not being a cheapskate and paying 3 cents extra for gas. There’s definitely a lesson here I’m not learning.

“I’m kinda screwed.” I told Rhyss.

She instantly slipped into worry mode, pounding me with reasonable questions, like, “What will you do? Where will you go? How will you get gas to your car? Do you have a gas can?”

My answer to all was:  I dunno, with the exception of the last question, which was a decided ‘no.’

“Is it safe? Will you be killed?” Rhyss lives in New Jersey and while editing fiction of mine that has quite a bit to do with cornfields, admitted that she had never actually seen a cornfield or been this far west.

“Sure it’s safe. It’s Minnesota.”

Rhyss was not convinced.

“The sun won’t set for another hour or so. I’ll be fine.”

Rhyss was not convinced.

I actually do some things alright, and anyone reading this might be amazed to learn that I’m an excellent project manager. But I have these crazy blind spots, like not packing dress socks for business trips, or remembering to bring take-out food in from the back seat. Or putting gas in the car, apparently.

“Okay. Now, I’m worried.” Rhyss said.

I drove for several miles with no gas station in sight, no exits, or signs for exits promising upcoming towns, the two of us reviewing my lack of options.
“Why are you so relaxed?” she asked me. “What are you going to do out in the countryside with no gas?”

“I’m not relaxed.” I told her, “But this isn’t the first time I’ve run out of gas. Remember that chapter in my novel about the guy who runs out of gas but has faith in Bolinas? True story.”

“Oh, God.” She said.

Before she could fret any further, I burst out laughing into the phone.

“WHAT?! WHAT?!”

“I just passed a road sign.” I explained. “Everything’s going to be fine. The sign said that Hope, Minnesota is in 1 mile.”

“Is there a gas station?”

“Didn’t say. But it’s Hope in one mile! Everything’s going to be fine.” I promised.

Rhyss didn’t find the same comfort in the big green sign that I did, but I couldn’t stop laughing.

Hope! One mile! Ridiculous!

Maybe I’m predisposed to worry too much, to get too locked into grinding my teeth, and it takes a cosmic shovel upside the head for me to remember to have faith. I know that some people exist with greater faith than mine - oceans of faith - with a lot less proof. I must be a little slow, which is okay with me most days, because I like big flashy miracles and I seem to witness a lot of them, like worm shit, and cookies, and even creepy monkeys. I don’t actually deserve these miracles, so I must need them as reminders.

At the top of the exit ramp, a new sign promised that Hope, Minnesota was 7 miles to my right.

“Uh oh.” I said. “Hope is actually 7 miles away. There’s nothing but farmland in every direction.”

Rhyss was not happy with this news. “What are you going to do? What now?”

We didn’t work out much of a plan because, as predicted, our cell phone connection abruptly ended.

Less than one minute later, my car started slowing down.

I remember thinking, ‘Oh, wow…I’m really going to run out of gas here on an empty road. Huh.’

I didn’t feel disappointment, fear, or that the sign had misled me. I was tickled - am still tickled - that when I started to worry, “Hope, 1 mile…” appeared alongside the highway. How could I be pissy about that? I decided that maybe faith wasn’t about the outcome I wanted, but worth the sheer joy of believing it possible. Hey, so I was wrong about a gas station appearing when I needed one.

Who cares?

I saw the sign for Hope and my immediate reaction was joy. That was the true moment of deliverance, right there.

Rhyss came into my life the same way. Just at the time I realized, “Holy shit, I could be a serious writer,” she contacted me and decided that if I wasn’t a total jerk about her edits, she might choose to help me. In the past year, she has challenged me, groomed me, schooled me in publishing, writing, and lovingly called me on my stubbornness, especially when it came to my OVERUSE OF ALL CAPS. She has done this all for free. Rhyss herself was my Hope, Minnesota, appearing just as I needed an influx of support to put me on the road.

She has edited my first novel and the first third of my second. She edits every chapter as many times back and forth as is warranted, and still find times to send me links on agents and publishing news. All this for free because she now that she’s retired, she’s generous with authors she believes in. I’m not the only one she’s lovingly editing. Unbelievable.

As my car started slowed down two weeks ago, the literal version of ‘running on fumes,’ I decided to angle towards a giant barn a quarter mile away, something you couldn’t see from the Hope exit. I figured I could at least ask for help, and heck, maybe they had a gas can and would let me buy $5 worth of gas. All part of the Hope adventure.

As I drew closer, I discovered that this giant barn was actually Krause Livestock & Feed.

Out front:  a gas pump.

I used my cell phone camera to take a picture for Rhyss.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, June 2nd, 2009 at 10:29 pm and is filed under Gratitude. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.