THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, February 24, 1995 TAG: 9502240525
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: FINAL
TYPE: Column
LENGTH: Medium: 59 lines
Let us return, as promised the other day, to the episode of the maddening gas tank cap. The crisis unfolded over Presidents Day weekend.
As the day was waning, my mind was bent on filling the rental car's tank and returning the car before it turned into a pumpkin and required an extra fee.
At the gas station, I swung into the eighth place at the far end and, getting out, discovered that the gas cap was on the driver's side, away from the pump, not on the passenger side as it is with my old convertible.
Ah well, wheel straight out of here, swing in another circle and come back heading into the same bay; but, as I pulled away, a car slipped into the spot behind me.
Pay it no mind, I thought, heading toward an open slot near the other end and, scooting into it and slowing down, discovered that once again, by George, the confounded cap, still obstinately on the driver's side, was not next to the pump.
This time, not even stopping, I speeded up and made another sweeping arc, feeling as if the car were an airplane in a holding pattern and noticing that occupants of other cars were pointing my way.
Distracted by their mirth, I wound up a THIRD time on the side away from the pump.
Spun away once more in orbit, as people all around were getting out of cars, staggering about laughing, pounding one another on the back, making fools of themselves generally.
How little it takes to amuse some nimwits.
Pulled around a FOURTH time, got out, and found at last that the dunce of a cap was next to the pump.
Clapping and cheering, onlookers began climbing into their cars, shaking their heads. ``It was better than Fatty Arbuckle!'' a gaffer yelled.
Walking to the gas cap, found to my dismay, it was locked. Fearing the worst, looked under the front seat, saw a trigger, pulled it, then checked the cap. Still locked.
Once more pulled the trigger under the front seat, resisting an impulse to yank it with all my might and wrest the entire transmission from under the floorboard.
Mustering as much dignity as possible, got into the car, drove to the rental lot, asked my friend Herman to check the stuck gas cap.
He tried to turn it, went inside and came out with a thin rod, which he inserted into the crease around the cap, and, twisting it, sprang it open.
``It happens,'' he said, and pointed in the cap's inner part to a tiny widget that had been forced out of place.
When in the name of Henry Ford will automakers agree to install caps on the same side or, better yet, center them in the rear?
I went back, entered an open space the proper way, filled the tank. None of my critics was there for the denouement. Which is always the way, is it not? ILLUSTRATION: Illustration
by CNB