a cult, a caravan
People who drive diesel vehicles, particularly the type of high-mileage diesel vehicles, know that they do not go to a gas station to get gas, they get fuel. The distinction is important. Espresso is not coffee, and vise versa; while they are from the same substance, their end result is fully detached.
Today, after work, I went to get fuel. For some reason, the up-front diesel pump that I go to is in the middle of the rest of the pumps, so I had to do some parallel parking to sneak in. But I made it, and I was getting myself some $2.20 per gallon fuel. Yum.
While pulling in, I noticed a clean, white Jetta on the other side of the diesel pump. I checked the rear end when I got out of my car and saw the TDI logo on the white Jetta. ::sigh:: I felt an instant affection and respect for the owner of that vehicle. The owner wasn’t around, however, and I was upset that I wouldn’t be able to have a conversation with a fellow diesel Jetta owner.
Once I fueled up, a man came out of the station area and just stood by me. I didn’t recognize that he was trying to start a conversation at first, but once I realized this was the TDI owner I lept at the chance to chat. We asked each other about our cars, transmission, miles, the usual. He seemed to not be in a hurry, and I reasoned as much because he looked in his sixties or late fifties, a possible post-retirement citizen. But he simply didn’t seem to want to end out conversation.
I then proceeded to ask how long he had his Jetta for. It looked like a 2001 from the exterior specs, but the dealership decal indicated it may have been purchased as a used car somewhat recently. He said, almost as a sigh or moan, that he bought it just a week ago. “Oh!” I said. “Wow, very nice.”
He shook his head rightfully so, but then added, “Yeah, I just filled it up with gas.”
I felt such a profound affinity with this man. Not only do we both drive VWs, both drive VW Jettas, and both drive diesel VW Jettas, but we both have also filled up a diesel vehicle with gasoline.
He needed the sympathy only I could offer. And I was willing to relate my humiliating experience to him to alleviate what pain I could. My humiliating experience, however, was less than enthralling and still eats away at me. I can remember going about 60 mph on a highway when the engine started to sputter, at which point I just pushed the accelerator even more. ::shiver::
I was a fortunte fool.