Perils of Caffeine in the Evening

Yesterday, a neighbor came to the door and asked if I had any gasoline he could borrow.  He had rented a pressure washer and was removing the exterior domestic encrustations that his wife apparently finds unsightly, the same natural encroachments that Mrs. Perils and I conveniently find add rustic charm to our place.

We’ve been using electric lawnmowers for about 15 years, and I doubted that I had any canned gasoline in the garage, but the spirit of discovery that the question engendered led me to pry open my infrequently-used garage door to re-acquaint myself with the 35+ years’ worth of stuff that I and at least 2 previous owners thought was too useful to throw away.

Well, “garage” is sort of gilding the lily regarding this “Appurtenant Structure” prized alike by tax assessors, insurance underwriters and neighborhood rodents.  Within its dank confines reside:

• an unfinished pre-hung front door that I purchased ca. 1978 when I was just getting up the courage to engage the major remodel of our house that I finally launched in 1981, at which time didn’t conform to our enhanced architectural vision;
• storm windows that once installed over the windows that I replaced in 1981;
• Scads of bicycle parts and tools that I accumulated in order to repair the generations of bicycles that we’ve owned since we first moved in here on New Year’s Eve 1974
• paint cans saved so that we could retrieve the color numbers for tints that we long ago covered with colors we like better, from paint companies long since bankrupt
• Oil changes that may have come out of my 1967 Pontiac Tempest and/or my 1973 Gremlin (don’t ask - I’ll post about it sometime)
• Paint brushes that we might be able to use to excavate for a new foundation or a bomb shelter, but that will never again be used to create deft brushstrokes on a quaint wood surface
• partial, tattered bags of fertilizer or some other substance that was once intended to enhance either soil or flora somewhere on the estate, but that would now expedite our application for membership in Al Qaeda or the Tim McVeigh Memorial Militia

You get the idea.  It took me mere seconds (because, actually, I’m sorta scared to go in there in the first place) to locate two rust-encrusted 1-gallon cans that said “Gasoline” and seemed to be mostly full of liquid.  I thrust them into the hands of my neighbor (whom I had fastidiously shielded from even a remote vision of the interior of the Appurtenant Structure) with the caveat that I (a) had no idea what was in them and (b) had no idea how old said substance was.

Later in the day, having heard no explosions or sirens, I ventured up the block to inquire about the efficacy of my largesse.  My neighbor said that whatever it was had worked fine, and he’d used it all up.  My first reaction was one of approval, a sense of relief that the Appurtenant Structure would house 2 gallons less of the engine of its inevitable demise.

Then I got to thinking that, damn!  that gasoline had originally cost, probably, $.95/gallon.  Over the weekend, gasoline was selling for $4.39/gallon here in Seattle. My attitude changed from one of relief to the feeling I might have if I ever break into my 401(k) prematurely, one of having vaguely compromised my family’s future.

We’re having a block party tomorrow evening here on North 52nd Street, part of the national Night Out Against Crime.  We’ll be munching and sipping within sight of said neighbor’s pristine concrete stairs and retaining walls.  If he’s packing a righteous Northwest microbrew, I might get even if I work fast.