American Road: Prologue

-Prologue-

The I-95 cuts a quick slice through Wisconsin. It is a steady road. Once I reach my speed, I flick a finger and switch on the cruise control. The roads are pretty straight – not much steering to do either. I briefly contemplate taking out a book to pass the time, but a passing cop car makes me think otherwise. Instead, I watch as the scenery passes me by. And it passes by pretty quickly on the Interstate – but at least there’s time to watch it – unlike on the smaller, more rural roads that twist and wheel, requiring me to pay more attention.

Not long after passing Eau Claire, we pull into a gas station. We’ve not had to refuel since renting the car – this will be the first time. The gas station is set in a place that strongly resembles nowhere in particular. It is big and modern – yet we are the only car on the forecourt. Behind and above it, the interstate allows traffic to whiz past. Apart from that, grassy fields – neither flat nor hilly – ideal for grazing dairy cattle and rolling cheese, surround it.

I open the car door and remove a nozzle from the pump, pulling it lazily towards the flap concealing the gas tank.

But there is no place to open it. I am momentarily confused, nozzle now held in the air. I press on the flap, now expecting it to pop open. It does not budge, it does not click.

“Marie”, I call into the car. “Can you look for the little lever that opens the petrol tank? It doesn’t open from here.”

Without verbal acknowledgement, Marie begins to search – sun-glassed eyes rummaging like an insect, neck snapping back and forth, shoulders stooping to bring the car floor into view.

A minute passes.

“Can you find it?”

“No”, she replies, puzzled look on her face.

I remove the nozzle from the air and return it to the pump.

Crouching on the ground, I open the driver’s side door and begin to look. I see a lever with a picture of a boot (or trunk, depending on your persuasion) opening. I pull it and see it fly open. Ok – so it does what it’s supposed to. I press it to see if that activates the fuel flap. Nothing.

I find another lever on the floor. I pull it. The car seat ramps forward with startling surprise – nearly chopping off fingers and mashing my head against the steering wheel. A second lever collapses the seat onto me. I feel up to the side of the steering wheel. A third lever is pulled and the hood flies open. Where is this damn thing?

Finally, near the steering wheel, I find a small, unmarked lever. It can’t be for the hood. Nor can it be for the trunk. It’s nowhere near a seat. Surely – surely – this must be it.

Pull.

Bang.

Ouch!

The steering wheel collapses on my head.

I sit into the car – maybe a different angle will reveal all.

I find more levers and switches. Windows now go up and down. Wing mirrors dance to unheard music.

Marie has by now located the car owner’s manual and is searching for every lever she can see. I watch her fold in half as her seat appears to eat her – no luck on her side either. Where is that damn thing?

A woman approaches – shop assistant, fifty-ish, heavy-set, billowing blouse to hide billowing flesh.

“Everything alright over here?”

“Hi – er – I want to get gas, but don’t know how to open the gas flap on the side of the car. It’s a rental. We’re looking in the manual, but can’t figure it out.”

She looks for a moment to see if we’re serious. Marie’s window descends a little before returning.

“Well, there’s probably just a lever somewhere,” she says, reaching to the floor by the driver’s seat. A pop sound tells that the trunk is open again. A second lever slides my seat backwards with rapidity.

“Huh”, she exclaims.

“Herb!”, she hollers back towards the main building.

A few seconds later, a bespectacled head with a red baseball cap appears. “What?!” The husband.

“Get over here.”

The situation is explained to him.

“You a tourist?”, he asks abruptly.

“Yep”, I acknowledge.

Shaking his head and muttering to himself (mainly about ‘damn tourists’), he takes over. 

“I’ll show you where it is”, he mumbles, reaching in beneath the drivers seat and foraging like the second bear to a berry bush. He forages for a good two minutes, moving the chair back and forward, popping the hood and opening the trunk.

“Have you tried pressing the flap itself?”
“Yep.”
“And did it work?”
“Nope”, I respond, amused that he even bothered to ask.

Taking my word for it, he makes his way to the gas flap and begins to press on it. Nothing happens.

“Hell – I don’t know”, he says, genuinely annoyed. He turns to the shop and begins to walk away. “I’ll give Grizzly a call.”

Grizzly? “Who is Grizzly”, I call after him. He waves me away – still annoyed that he couldn’t figure it out.

“Grizzly is the mechanic next door”, ventures his wife.

Sure enough, within another couple of minutes, Grizzly arrives on the scene, wearing a pair of greasy blue overalls and a baseball cap. For an American Football team.

“What’s the problem here?”

I explain.

“Oh – it’s the gas flap – you just press on it”, he tells me as he presses on it.

Nothing happens.

“Yeah – just a matter of pressing on it”, he repeats, pressing it again.

“Hmmm”, he says, like the remaining part of a felled tree. (Apologies – poor ‘stumped’ joke).

“Well, maybe there’s a lever around one of the front seats.”

I explain that we’ve looked – all of us – but cannot locate any.

“Lets just have a look anyway.”

He begins by placing his hand under the drivers seat. While there, he pops the hood and the trunk, moves the seat backwards and forwards, adjusts the steering wheel height, alters the wing mirrors, and, just for good measure, turns on the wipers.

“Hmmm.” He stares at the car. “Well, that is a pickle.”

Great. I’m glad he was here to clarify that.

With that – I swear – a car containing five prison guards from a nearby prison pulls in at the gas pump beside us.

“You folks having a problem?,” asks one.

“You could say that”, I respond. “We have a rental here and are trying to put gas into it. But we can’t figure out how the gas tank opens. I’ve tried, my wife has tried, this lady here has tried, her husband has tried and Grizzly has tried.”

“We’ll sort it for you”, he says. Before I know what’s happening, there are five prison guards sitting in the car. Seats go back and forward, up and down. Windows ballet from open to shut. Wipers turn on. Lights flash. The car is alive - but there is no sound from the gas tank flap.

“You guys ever hear of the story of the Giant Turnip?”, I ask.

“No”, responds a puzzled guard.

“It’s about this farmer that grows a turnip so big that he can’t pull it out of the ground. He gets help from one person, then another, and so on. Before long, the entire town is pulling the turnip with him.”

He gives me a puzzled look and returns to looking for a lever.

“What happened next?,” comes the voice of another prison guard.

“Oh – they got the turnip out and all ate it.”

He too gives me a confused look before ignoring me and returning to moving his seat back and forth, leaving me feeling naked and clad only with vegetable stories.

About five minutes later, they all get out of the car at the same time. “Sorry – we just can’t see it.” I thank them anyway and they go.

I look at Marie. What are we to do?? In desperation, we decide to call the helpline listed on the rental information.

“How can I help you?,” asks the assistant.

I explain the problem.

“Oh – you just push on the flap and it opens.”

“We tried that. No dice.”

“Did you try the other side of the flap?”

I had not …

I push on it.

It clicks.

It swings open.

“Em … that did it alright. Thanks.” I’m sure that she can feel the heat from my scarlet cheeks down the phone line.

We fill up and go into the shop to pay. Herb approaches us.

“You get it sorted out?”

“Yeah – we rang the helpline. Turns out that we were pressing the wrong side of the flap!” I smile, trying to make light of it. He shakes his head – in what seems to be disgust – and walks away.

We return to the car, leaving the shop assistant, her husband, Grizzly and the five prison guards behind.

American Road will be serialized each week in the Liffey Champion Newspaper, beginning in February 2011. Follow Seán's (mis)adventures each week.