We had to go to the bank this morning–Aunt Joan’s penniless estate and all. We went in Patty’s car. And first she had to get gas.
The attendant seemed to be having no end of trouble pumping the gas into the tank. The tank is full of air, he says, the gas won’t go in. Between us Patty and I have about 120 years’ driving experience and have never heard of this problem. So we only get some gas.
But now the car smells of gasoline fumes. I think it’s because the guy spilled gas when he took the hose out; I saw it. Patty thinks we’re going to be killed in an explosion. And then we go to the bank because we’ve been chained to this estate for over two years and neither of us thinks of just turning around and going back home.
She is afraid now to start up the car. I am upset. Finally I point out that we did start the engine and leave the gas station without getting blown up. In great dread and terror we start the car and drive home. Now it’s time to call the tow truck. Our mechanic wants a look at the car’s innards.