Now you're just toying with me.

I picked up the silver bullet last night. I hopped in the driver's seat, happy to be back in my own saddle, and headed toward I-35 for 30-mile trek home. Oops - low on gas. I'll just stop in here at this Diamond Shamrock and put in $5 worth of gas - don't want to fill up because the price isn't that good, but $5 will get me home and to work tomorrow and then I can fill up someplace more reasonable. I don't want to put my heels back on, though - I wore them all day, and now I hate them. But that's okay, because I live in 2005, and I can Pay At The Pump, which means I can just hop out in my bare feet and run around to the pump - no one will see me.

Slip my credit card in the pump, watch the gauge until it gets to $5, try to do the Jerry Seinfeld/AMEX thing and stop right on $5 - don't make it. $5.06. "Cashier has receipt." What? What do you mean the cashier has the receipt? I'm Paying At The Pump. Did no one explain to you people the concept of Paying At The Pump? That means I don't have to go into the store - my entire transaction is supposed to take place right here At The Pump. If I wanted to go into the store and interface with the cashier (who is inexplicably peering at me through the doors of the store as if I'm armed), I would have put my shoes on and done so. Well, I'm not doing it. I'm not putting my shoes on, and I'm not walking over there - the fearful cashier can just save that receipt until it yellows, because I Paid At The Pump, and I'm not going in!! I'll write my own receipt. I've got paper in the car. "11/7, $5, Diamond Shamrock." Ha!

Key in ignition, engine turns over, gas gauge reads...the same. It's as if I've added no gas to the tank whatsoever. And yet...I have this receipt that I just wrote for myself. Turn off the engine. Re-start. Nothing - I'm still sitting at my pre-Pay At The Pump levels. Cell phone.

"Dad, what does it mean when I put $5 of gas in the tank, and the gauge shows nothing?" (Me: expecting he'll say my gauge is broken, which would mean another trip to the repair shop, and NOT wanting to hear that.)

"You only put $5 in?"

'Yeah, and it's not registering."

"$5 is hardly anything."

"I know, but I've put $5 in it hundreds of times, and it always shows."

"You probably didn't put in enough."

"You're not listening - it always shows up. This time, it's like nothing happened."

"$5 isn't much - it's probably not enough."

"If you're going to keep repeating yourself about the $5, I'm going to have an aneurysm. In fact, I think I'm having one now. I can't talk to you anymore."

Heels on. Storm into store. Fearful cashier runs behind counter. I see that he's a hefty youth, with a hearing aid and his nails painted with chipping black polish. You are sad, little monkey, aren't you, son? He can't help me - he hands me the receipt, though. The manager is mopping the bathroom - good to know they do that. But she can't help me either. It's a mystery. I make a show of storming out and though I didn't intentionally squeel my tires as I left, I didn't feel bad about it either. I drive with angry purpose to the Shell station on the other side of the freeway - why, they're 10 cents cheaper! But I still only put in $6 in case there's some kind of hole in my tank or something. Low and behold, ALL of the gas registers this time. It's the car - this time I heard outright snickering.

So, I peel out of the Shell station, shifting angrily through the gears to punish the stupid Cougar. But in a strange mirroring of my relationships with men, I'm soon speeding along I-35 in 5th gear, much too fast, and enjoying my car again - the cruel mind games forgotten. You're a fun car, aren't you? Hey, let's turn up the radio real loud.