Word of advice: Don't stop for gas in Kansas if you can help it. Every word of the following is true.
Growing up in Lubbock, I thought I was acclimated to prairie winds. Not so. In Kansas, the leaves blow at you like darts, straight line. No whirly, girly wind. This stuff means business.
So I was braced against the wind at Pump Number three when the damn thing started stuttering. On/off. On/off. No matter how I set my jaw, on/off. As I looked for the Mystery Woman to help block the wind, I heard a whoosh. Felt it, too, as gasoline gushed out of the gas tank and all over me. On/off had stopped working.
Quickly, I checked to see everything electrical was shut off. No cigarettes. Already the wind was evaporating the spilled gasoline. We slipped the van into neutral and the wind pushed the vehicle about ten feet away from the quickly drying puddle. No kidding. The wind was that strong.
But the damage was done. I smelled like Port Arthur. You could draw air pictures in the gasoline fumes that swirled around me.
We crossed the parking lot and walked into a restaurant and the guy behind the counter exclaimed: what happened? Obviously, my cologne was not working. I had to do something or the Mystery Woman was going to hitchhike the rest of the way.
Although the van was packed to the roof line, I managed to shaq some leisure pants and a change of shoes.
Had to change britches in the van. Kansas is so conservative, I think I broke several laws in the back seat.
I think I may have to run for U.S. Senate.