The Gas Adventure: Part 3

So we find this drive-in theater and I secretly make plans to bring my girlfriend here. But it turns out that it’s called “the old drive-in theater” for a reason. Because it’s very old. And very closed. But behind it are all sorts of trailers and trucks and stuff and a host of other machinery one would hope to see at a supposed dump. Or so I’d think.

So in we go.

Down a winding road…past more trucks…past mounds of dirt….and more mounds of dirt…until a pick-up truck pulls up in front of us and we follow it to a parking lot where a group of men are leaning against yet another truck.

We pull up next to the pick-up and ask the guy, “We have some gasoline we’re trying to dump. Do you know any place around here we can dump it?”

Please say this is the place. There are mounds of apparently useless dirt here. There must be a place to pour a measely gallon of gasoline.

The guy pulls his cigarette out his mouth and clears his throat. “Oh, we don’t do that here.”

You have got to be adulting me. Is there no end to this?

“We were told there was a dump nearby and we thought this was it,” I clarified, hoping that didn’t come out offensively.

“Yeah, but we don’t dump gas here. But there is a place nearby you can go to.”

“Where’s that?” Chase asks.

“You know where Lace is?”

I shake my head. Chase thinks it’s a Lacrosse store. I think it’s a French antique shop. Or a shoe place. Or the birthplace of Gin and Tonic. I don’t know. I just want to dump this gasoline.

“You don’t know Lace?” the guy asks, shocked.

“We’re not from around here,” I tell him.

He chuckles. “It’s a strip club.”

Oh, wonderful.

“So go down, you’ll see it on your right, turn left, and the dump will be there.”

At this point, Chase and I can see all sorts of possibilities of how this can go wrong. We get lost on the way and pull over to a group of guys and ask, “Hey, can you tell us how to get to Lace?”

“The strip club? Yeah, I’m going there right now! Hey, Larry!”

You know the rest.

But we really need to dump this gasoline.

“Do you have to pay for that dump?” I ask the man.

“Yeah. But if you wanna dump for free, there’s a fire training center in Pamona.”

Pamona? Where in the name of all things sane is Pamona? And why does it sound like a Greek goddess we have to apease on our way to Troy? We just want to dump some stupid gasoline.

“How far is Pamona?” I ask. And how many goats should we sacrifice to her?

“Go on the Pallisades and take the exit for Route 45.”

“Which exit is that?” I ask.

“Ummm…,” the guy scrunches his face as he tries to remember. Then he calls out to the group of men down the road. “Which exit is Pa—”

But a truck suddenly rolls by and drowns out his voice. And we wait for another minute as it takes its deliciously sweet time crawling past.

“What exit is Pamona?” the man shouts again.

The men shrug.

Wonderful.

And we’re off again. Away from Lace and whatever inexplicable misadventures were waiting for us there and towards the Greek goddess of Pamona. But little did we know that Chronos had other plans…

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