By Jim Hagarty
1991
Ever since service stations began stuffing my mailbox full of gas coupons, I haven’t been able to keep gas in my car.
I’ve got coupons for $1 off and some for even more. I’ve gotten them for Christmas wrapping paper and plastic drinking glasses. Also wine glasses. And stamps. I’ve even cashed in “scratch and win” coupons, where, after I’ve filled up, the service station attendant has scraped away the grey covering from a little box on a card and told me how much I’ve saved.
Saving and cashing in these coupons have become my little way of battling high fuel prices.
But they’ve also resulted in my being stranded several times lately by the side of the road, not a drop of gas – expensive or cheap – in my tank.
I explain. Most coupons are only good on fill-ups of 25 litres or more and some can only be redeemed after buying at least 30 litres of gas. For most cars, this is no problem. But my little red car only holds about 30.5 litres which does not give me a wide margin of error when I’m trying to calculate when I can fill up and still redeem my coupons. So, every time I pull into a service station now, I sit nervously, coupon clutched in my hand, staring out my window as the gas pump meter clicks: 21 litres, 22, 23, 23.5 … Will I make 25 or 30 or whatever I need before the attendant stops the pump?
Complicating matters are certain gas stations where the pumps were built on a hill. If I don’t watch myself, and park the wrong way at one of these service centres – and I know where most of them are now – the front of my car will face down with the rear end up, allowing my tank to hold only 22 litres or even less before the pump says the car’s full and quits, leaving me sitting with an uncashed gas coupon.
Therefore, to take advantage of these great gas savings and to collect my rightful share of towels, glasses, wrapping paper and stamps, I have to drive around all week with my car on empty and fill up only at service stations where the bays are perfectly level.
After a while, a person gets pretty good at judging important things like this. Riding along with me, a passenger might ask me if I don’t think we’ll soon run out of gas but I know that, even though my fuel indicator is on the third line below EMPTY, I still have enough for a few more kilometres.
“Heck, I’ve driven to London and back on less than that,” I’ve been heard to laugh, bravely.
In fact, I recently left Toronto with the indicator just above E. By Kitchener, it was below E. At Shakespeare, it was WAY BELOW E. But, I made it home.
The next morning, however, in my own driveway, the car wouldn’t start. It was out of gas.
And I’ve miscalculated several times lately, twice while driving on Lorne Avenue at the south end of the city.
And anyone who can run out of gas in Stratford, where gas stations abound – there are three within two blocks of my home – should win a prize.
A really great prize.
A book of gas coupons would be nice.
In not too many years from now, the next generations will be asking, “Grandpa, what is a gas station?”
