Running on empty

I must say, “out of gas” wasn’t on my bingo card. Or my sister’s, I’m certain. Yet there we were returning from a family visit in Charlotte, N.C., to see her two daughters (a.k.a., my Tar Heel State nieces) and their families. For me, it was a long overdue trip since I had never seen their homes. Honestly, it’s been about 40 years since my last trip to this area. Long story, but let’s just say it involved an unforgettable tour of a livermush factory in Mint Hill. I can still recall the sight of pan-fried pig parts gracing my breakfast plate. Anyway, this time we packed in pork-free fun over five days: catching up on conversation and laughs, eating home-cooked meals, watching a Detroit Lions victory over the Green Bay Packers (Wisconsin natives are such great hosts … thanks, DJ!) and walking on crisp October days that are a touch milder than Michigan autumns. We FaceTimed with my three great-nieces who live and work across the country from San Francisco to Los Angeles to Raleigh, N.C. Sometimes technology truly is a wonderful thing. It was great “seeing” Kim, Sara and G on big and small screens. Almost felt as if we were all together despite the miles. Maureen and DJ were gracious hosts, along with Kristen and her son Landon, now 13, and their lovable Aussie/Doodle-plus something dog named Creek and low-allergen Russian Blue cat Sitzi, who mostly ignored me, thank goodness.

On a Saturday morning, we opted out of having Rebecca drive us to the airport or booking some other form of paid transportation service, say, our buddy Lou from Detroit’s East Side who has never eaten hot dogs. (Long story, but sometimes I regret asking too many questions. Force of habit.)

Instead, we left our vehicle at Airlines Parking in Romulus, Michigan. They feature those bright yellow shuttle buses that pick you up, and then drop you and your bags off at one of Detroit Metropolitan Airport’s terminals.

It’s easy and $15 a day, although we were both surprised at how much the rate had increased since we retired. Still worth the convenience.

Fun fact I never knew: Airlines Parking opened in 1965 as the first offsite airport parking facility in the United States. Now you know, too.

Our flight home last Wednesday from Charlotte was uneventful. We were both tired from our jam-packed visit and dozed off between sips of coffee and bites of our Delta-branded Biscoff cookies.

Aside: Did you know the name Biscoff is a portmanteau of “biscuit” and “coffee” because the cookie – created in Belgium in 1932 – is traditionally designed to be enjoyed alongside a hot cup of coffee? True.

Anyway, we were thrilled that an early arrival meant we would possibly miss the worst of Detroit’s rush-hour traffic. Our shuttle bus of returning travelers included a weary middle-aged couple, a younger guy who never looked up from his phone and an older dude wearing fancy cowboy boots who sighed the entire ride to the parking lot.

As we pulled up to the couple’s SUV, they let out an unexpected “OH NO” unison: They had a flat tire.

“The second time this has happened,” the man growled. The woman shook her head in disgust.

We felt sorry for them and relieved that it wasn’t us. Our bus driver alerted dispatch and kindly waited until they were inside their vehicle.

Our sympathy turned to empathy in a New York minute after our driver dropped us off in Section 4-I, as in “four eyes.” This time he didn’t wait for us to get in the car, likely in a hurry to drop off Mr. Fancy Boots.

“He’s supposed to wait,” I think I said as we loaded our bags into the trunk.

We got into the Jeep Grand Cherokee, anxious to get on the road and head home. But it wouldn’t start.

Crank, crank, crank. Not. Turning. Over. Crapola.

Although I believe I said something slightly more colorful that rhymes with stuck.

Thinking it was a dead battery, my sister called the Airlines Parking office back near the entrance. A nice lady named Linda sent another yellow bus driven by Melvin, who had a battery booster.

Sweet Melvin tried his best to jump-start the Jeep, to no avail.

He suggested it may be a blown fuse. Or something else. A word starting with “g.”

Brave soul.

“Could you be out of gas?” Sweet Melvin asked my sister.

Her head whipped around faster than I’d ever seen a human do since Linda Blair in “The Exorcist.”

“What did you say? Out of gas? There’s no way I’m out of gas. My father always told us never to let the tank get below half full, so I never do. Never ever,” she said.

A wise woman of a certain age, my sister was adamant, adding something about “our dearly departed father watching from above” and how disappointed he would be if she were ever running on empty.

Sweet Melvin raised one eyebrow and mouthed “Praise the Lord” before high-tailing it back to his bus.

Me? I thanked God and all the saints in Heaven that we hadn’t taken my car.

As his favorite daughter, I could hear Dad’s voice above a blanket of dark clouds drifting in on cue: “Half full, babe. Remember what I always told you? Never below half. Ever.”

Unfazed, my sister called Road Service. Within an hour, a guy named Chaz wearing a white jumpsuit showed up in a late model Buick SUV and parked next to us.

“Um, where’s your tow truck?” I asked.

“I don’t have a tow truck, but I do have a super-battery booster and a gallon of fuel in case you’re out of gas,” said Chaz, whose trunk also revealed a padded red “DoorDash” bag. This guy was a rock star.

“But really, we’re not out of gas,” I said with confidence, adding: “Have you got any food in there?”

Like Sweet Melvin’s attempt to jump the battery, Chaz’s also failed. So, he found a funnel, opened the fuel door and poured in a gallon of gas.

“Try and start it now,” he said to my sister.

It worked. We were both stunned. I looked down at my shoes.

“Best get yourself some more gas, ladies,” Sweet Melvin said. “God bless you and your father.”

We thanked both gentlemen, paid our bill and headed home.

“I’ll bet it’s the fuel gauge,” she said. I nodded in full agreement.

Next time we’re calling Lou.

(YouTube video montage: Jackson Browne’s 1977 song “Running on Empty” uses the physical and literal experience of driving a car with a near-empty gas tank as a metaphor for exhaustion and the relentless pace of a life spent on the road. Word is that he rarely filled up his gas tank on short drives to the studio, which inspired the song’s title. The album “Running on Empty” is considered his signature work and was recorded live at a concert in Columbia, Maryland. Browne, now 78, has sold more than 30 million albums.)