“Every time I burp, I taste gasoline.”  I was seated next to Don as he drove us towards the edge of town, out east.  I kept reaching for the unopened bottle of whiskey and he kept refusing me, even though it was his fault that all I could taste was gasoline.  “Keep your hands off, goddamn it!” he said.

“My throat burns,” I said.  “Just let me take a pull.”

“Sorry kid, not till we get there.  I’m saving it for the boys.”

“Turn on the radio then.”

“The radio’s busted.”

We had set out to find Don’s old war buddies from Vietnam.  He said he usually finds them out at the old stockyard in the abandoned trains; setting fires and making pigeons fight each other.  He didn’t have enough gas in the tank but rather than taking my offer to pay a few bucks to get us going, Don insisted we siphon the gas from “some of these fancy cars around here.  Hell, no one will care much in this neighborhood.”  I argued, but when it comes to Don, there’s no arguing–especially if he’s driving.

We had been at the Sunken Steam for a few hours and then Don grabbed the old rusted gas can from the trunk of his Plymouth along with a length of crusty corroded plastic tubing.  We spent a good hour and a half hopping fences, ducking behind bushes, and avoiding streetlights.  I kept watch for oncoming cars, fat pedestrians, and dogs loose from their yards.  Don would bust open the flaps, then the nozzle, then the tubing would go way, way down until it stopped deep inside somewhere.  Don carried a flathead screwdriver in case any of the flaps were locked.

“Forget that shit you see in the movies,” he said.  “The gas doesn’t come right away; it takes work.  You may only get a little bit at a time from one tank.  Keep the end of the tube close to the ground so gravity helps you out.  Like this.”  He sucked at the end of the tube like it was the only place you could get oxygen and everyone fought for a piece, then he pulled the hose out of his mouth and aimed it at the pavement.  He repeated this until he saw the gas creeping along then he dropped the tube down into the can and we heard gasoline splash into the bottom.  “Sometimes it won’t be this slow.  Hell, I’ve seen it come shooting out like a goddamn geyser!  You gotta keep an eye on it, be careful, ‘cause it can be different every time.”  I laughed.  “Sounds like you’re giving me blow job tips, old man.  You tryin’ to tell me something?”

“Oh, you shut the fuck up.”

After a few sedans that looked either like they just came off the lot or they were owned by people with obsessive compulsive disorders the old rusted gas can had reached a little over half and Don had gasoline stains on his shirt.  Then he insisted we hit a new neighborhood and that it was my turn.  He’d keep watch.

At the end of some street we found the First Presbyterian Community Church of This Neighborhood Before The Other First Presbyterian Community Church From That Neighborhood with a parking lot full of vacant, unsuspecting vehicles.  I looked at all the cars and wondered why they were there when the church was closed.

Don said, “These are the cars the Sunday school teachers use to take the kids on fieldtrips to the grocery store to buy them gram crackers and juice and disillusioned ways of life.”  We crept up and hurried out of view, stopping behind a big oak tree.  We caught our breath.  A station wagon was dead ahead.  “No one’s in sight.  You’re up, kid.”

We knelt down and I popped the nozzle and fed the tubing down until it stopped.  I heard the gas sloshing around and I could already taste it.  The fumes made my head spin.  I looked at Don, then at the hose.  He looked around, gave me an impatient face, so I gave it a shot.

I inhaled and the fumes filled my lungs, began to sting.  I thought of the little tissues in my lungs that assist in converting carbon monoxide to oxygen within the blood as little people in some small village being bombed by a dominant country and they were running for their lives.  I stopped.  I had to.  I pulled the end of the hose away and aimed it into Don’s old rusted gas can that he probably has had since Vietnam and I started to cough and Don let out a “Shhhhhhh!  You trying to wake somebody?”

After a few more coughs I looked up at him.  “Yeah.  God.”

“Hurry up kid, no more smart ass shit from you.  We got drivin’ to do.”

“What’s the matter?  We got at least three gallons here already.”

“It takes a lot more than that to get old Bucket Bitch runnin’.  Now stop making excuses, kid.”

I tried again.  The whole time I neglected to say anything about how we may have been there already if he wasn’t so proud.

Then it hit.  Round two had it in for me.  Maybe I had woken God.  Maybe I had pissed Him off.

The gasoline came out faster than I had anticipated, and it flooded my mouth like a vengeful torrent, then down the throat.  There wasn’t a specific taste to it; it just reminded me of all the bad things I had done in my life.  And it burned–it burned my eyes and my nose and my throat like nothing I had ever experienced.  It was suffocating me.

It splashed to the bottom of my stomach and mixed with everything in there in perfect harmony.  I dropped the hose, spilling the gas everywhere.  I fell on my hands and knees and vomited all that had invaded my guts.  Along with the nasty tasting shit came my dinner, and all the bourbon I had in me was holding a close second.  I stared down at a gasoline and vomit cocktail all over God’s property.

It sent Don into a laughing seizure like I had never imagined and he fell onto his back and dropped his screwdriver.  “I told you to look out for that, you dumb son-of-a-bitch!  Ha, ha, ha, ha!”  I looked up and he had his teeth out, bellowing in that maniacal fashion of his.  A gust of wind came up and blew the fumes in my face and I hacked up again.  Don laughed some more.

On our way out to the edge of town I left the window down and the wind hit the gasoline and the gasoline made the skin on my face tighten to the point of unbearable discomfort.  The whole car was swarming with fumes and my stomach was doing gymnastics.  I could hear the gas can clinking around in the trunk and I imagined all the vomit, all the wasted booze.  I wanted to lay into Don and knock those teeth clear out of his mouth and out the driver’s side window but all I could do was laugh.  I reached for the bottle of whiskey and Don snatched it from my hands.  “Goddamn it, I already told you,” he said, stashing the bottle out of my reach.  “You keep that up and I may just drop you off out here, or out there, with the animals, wherever we are.”

“Mind if I smoke?” I asked.

He shook his head, “Fucking wise ass.”

As we made our way east to an old stock yard I closed my eyes and thought of the taste of something other than gasoline while trying to ignore the taste of gasoline.

• Short Stack