Short Story: Out of Gas

I pulled into the gas station on fumes.

Not metaphorical fumes.

The dashboard had long since stopped displaying numbers and simply read:

GOOD LUCK.

I inserted my debit card.

The pump displayed:

DOESN'T WORK.

My chest tightened.

Or maybe it had already been tight.

I inserted it again.

CARD EXPIRED.

WRONG CARD.

But I had just received a new card.

I had activated it.

I had put it in my wallet.

I opened my wallet.

The new card wasn't there.

The card in my hand was gone too.

No problem.

I checked my purse.

Cards. ID. Cards for everything.

But not the one I was looking for.

I checked another purse.

And another wallet.

And a tote bag.

I was packed for a vacation.

Or a business trip.

Or moving permanently.

I wasn't sure anymore.

I just knew I was supposed to drive somewhere.

And I had no gas.

No.

I had five dollars worth of gas.

Which somehow felt worse.

Suddenly I was sitting on the floor of my childhood living room in front of the fireplace.

The gas pump was still beeping somewhere nearby.

I pulled tangled chargers from a tote bag.

Wires.

Headphones.

Phone chargers for phones I no longer owned.

Fabric.

Scarves.

Clothes.

Then a wallet.

Inside:

• three expired debit cards

• a Food Lion MVP card

• a grocery list from 2018 that said POTATOES

• a hotel key from a city I'd never visited

• a coupon for fifty cents off canned cat food the cats won't eat

The second wallet contained:

• seventeen loyalty cards

• a tiny rock

• another wallet

I opened the wallet inside the wallet.

Everything fell out.

The growing pile spread across the living room floor.

I was getting lost in it.

I was sinking.

Every purse contained more purses.

Every wallet contained more cards.

Every card seemed vaguely important but completely useless.

There were:

• library cards

• rewards cards

• insurance cards

• business cards

• key cards

• punch cards

• membership cards

Nothing was current.

Everything had expired.

But everything had to be kept.

For years.

Because what if I needed it?

The gas pump beeped again.

PLEASE INSERT VALID PAYMENT METHOD.

"There isn't one," I said.

The machine did not seem sympathetic.

I found a receipt.

Then another.

Then hundreds.

Receipts poured from every compartment.

They were folded into wallets.

Stuffed into purses.

Rolled into tubes.

One was fourteen feet long and documented the purchase of a single avocado.

Another appeared to be itemized charges from the Renaissance.

The pile grew.

A light breeze arrived.

Receipts scattered across the parking lot.

The parking lot disappeared beneath receipts.

The gas station attendant emerged.

He looked around.

"Do you need help?"

"I need my debit card."

"Do you know where it is?"

"No."

"What does it look like?"

This felt unnecessarily hostile.

I continued digging.

The purses had begun reproducing.

A tote bag gave birth to a clutch.

The clutch produced a wristlet.

The wristlet produced a coin purse.

The coin purse contained seventeen hotel key cards and a coupon for free mozzarella sticks.

None of them worked.

The gas gauge dropped lower.

The needle slipped entirely off the dial.

A warning appeared.

FUEL LEVEL: EMPTY.

The sky darkened.

Something rustled overhead.

A small strip of paper drifted from the clouds.

I caught it.

NOTICE: YOUR CARD HAS BEEN REPLACED.

Wonderful.

Another floated down.

NOTICE: THE REPLACEMENT CARD HAS BEEN REPLACED.

Another.

NOTICE: PLEASE DESTROY PREVIOUS REPLACEMENT CARD.

Another.

NOTICE: YOU HAVE BEEN REPLACED.

Another.

NOTICE: YOU ARE NO LONGER NEEDED.

The papers multiplied.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

The clouds themselves unfolded into receipts.

Ticker tape poured from the heavens.

It streamed around the gas pumps.

Wrapped around cars.

Collected in drifts.

The world became paperwork.

I grabbed a strip.

ACTION REQUIRED.

Another.

ADDITIONAL ACTION REQUIRED.

Another.

PREVIOUS ACTION WAS INCORRECT.

Another.

PLEASE RETAIN FOR YOUR RECORDS.

Another.

YOUR RECORDS CANNOT BE LOCATED.

Another.

CARD FOUND.

I looked up hopefully.

The next strip floated down.

NOT THAT CARD.

Another.

PLEASE CONTACT CUSTOMER SERVICE.

Another.

CUSTOMER SERVICE HAS MOVED.

Another.

NO FORWARDING ADDRESS AVAILABLE.

The ticker tape intensified.

A blizzard of administrative documentation descended upon civilization.

Cars vanished.

Buildings vanished.

The horizon vanished.

I stood waist-deep in notices.

Then chest-deep.

Then neck-deep.

The final strip landed gently across my face.

It read:

TO PURCHASE GAS, PLEASE LOCATE THE ORIGINAL DEBIT CARD.

I screamed.

SCREAM DENIED DUE TO SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY.

When you are out of control, that is freedom. Right?