At first I chuckle. The fuel indicator on my dashboard creeps down. I imagine what would happen if it hits the bottom here, soon. For hours I traverse the unruly wasteland of West Texas, between cacti and sandblasted stone, almost without seeing a human being.
Of all nations in the world, Americans consume the most gasoline, about 1,600 liters per person annually (in the Netherlands 332 liters). The Texans are proudly at the top. One in ten liters is held here. I understand why.
My gas is, admittedly, faster than expected. It’s not a real concern. According to the counter I can go another 110 miles. 177 kilometers. It’ll be fine.
The loneliness is intoxicating. When I saw no oncoming traffic for just an hour, perhaps for the first time in my life, I screamed out the open window. That was a while ago. 80 miles. The last gas station looms in my mind like a ghost. Declaring all those receipts, hassle on three-quarters of the tank: I’d take the next one.
Gasoline is political. Little is more exciting in this country. When gasoline prices broke record after record this spring, reaching $1.29 a liter, it turned out to be the ultimate Republican weapon. Threatened democracy? Opportunity inequality? Climate change? Let’s talk about the pump first. That works. In some states, more than 90 percent of the population is dependent on a car. Gasoline is, literally, a foodstuff here.
50 miles. Who will help me next? ‘Refueling’ I add to my least favorite mental category: things i should have done.
Texas has 11,388 gas stations, the most in the country. You have to know where to find them. No connection. The card has been relegated to an errant blue ball against an existential white background. I should have downloaded beforehand.
Gasoline is religion. ‘Pray for low gas prices‘ I read on a church sign. In August, the liter price fell below the dollar again. Analysts say that could prove as decisive for Joe Biden in the midterm elections as his policy. I wonder if he ever talks about that.
I’ve finally lost my laughter. 20 miles. How could I be so stupid? An empty tank, in Texas. I feel like a driving cliché.
Aircon off. Sweat is now streaming down my back. I see the miles leaking away, 15, 13, 10. The majestic landscape now seems harsh and unforgivable. Downhill I let go of the gas. Every time the engine growls, my stomach turns. Fucking European, with my pathetic scream.
Over there! In the void, a tavern with two fiery red pumps emerges. GAS. Gasoline. To leave. I’m looking for where to insert my credit card. Then a man with a black hat and mustache steps out of the shadows. I point to the pump. He shrugs. “It’s been empty for years, my friend.”
I am transfixed to the ground. The man grins. ‘Don’t worry’, he growls: there’s a jerry can ready. I get the feeling this isn’t the first time. He stares at my pass. ‘cash only, friend.’ I want to scream again. I haven’t pinned.
The man reluctantly shows me the way to the real gas station. 7 miles away. Uphill. I still have 9 in the tank. I follow his instructions at a snail’s pace. Only when the pump hums, mechanical music, I dare to chuckle cautiously again.