The Good, the Bad and the Just Plain Stupid

Just about everybody is complaining about the cost of gasoline these days. If your car’s gas tank is big enough, a fill-up will run you more than 20 bucks. When Southern Californians first saw those prices, we felt woozy. And then we’re reminded that a fill-up in Europe has cost twice that for years.

But the other day, in the rural San Bernardino County community of Yucaipa, someone I know much too well wound up paying $300 for a fill-up.

That’s not a misprint. Three hundred bucks--and it was self-serve. He didn’t even get his oil checked or his windshield wiped.

Much to my dismay, I live with this person. We share everything, including the same body, and even worse, the same mind.

I used to think that I, like many people, simply had an evil twin. Evidence is mounting, however, that I’m a set of triplets. In addition to Good Scott and Evil Scott, it seems, there is also Stupid Scott.

It happened on a recent Friday. My friend Joel had suggested that we drive way the heck out to Rancho Cucamonga to play some new golf course, a place called Empire Lakes that Arnold Palmer supposedly designed.

Well, why not? I could get my work done Thursday night. And since another friend, John, would also be playing, he and I could carpool.

Then John canceled. So off I went Friday morning, allowing myself ample time for the drive and a little warmup.

The directions were simple enough. Take the San Bernardino Freeway east to the Haven exit, head north and follow the signs.

So off I drove out through the San Gabriel Valley, through the Pomona Valley and into the Inland Empire. To my left I saw the strange rows of palm trees standing vigil, awaiting housing tracts. This, I knew, was Rancho Cucamonga. The exit must be coming up. . . .

Puzzled, I passed I-15. Where was Haven? Up ahead lay Fontana and Redlands. With some anger, I realized that Joel had given me wrong directions. Maybe Haven exited from the 15, or maybe Empire Lakes wasn’t in Rancho Cucamonga. I drove on, hoping that a Haven exit would soon appear.

Fate led me to Yucaipa and a certain Chevron station. Low on gasoline, I pulled up to the pump, slid in my credit card and inserted the nozzle in my tank. With my tee time only 15 minutes away, I rushed to a phone booth and called the golf course. I made the guy give me directions twice. Just take the Haven exit off the 10, he said.

It was at this point that I should have realized Stupid Scott was behind the wheel. The idiot drove past the exit.

He got off the phone and, his stomach growling, bought a Coke and a snack. Then he hurried into his car and pulled away from the pump.

Kuh-klang!

He put on the brakes, wondering what he’d just run over. Then he looked out his window and saw the gasoline hose lying like a dead python on the asphalt, stretched about 25 feet from the pump.

It was then painfully obvious that Stupid Scott was indeed behind the wheel.

My car, fortunately, was undamaged. The young station manager came out and politely asked whether I had insurance. I parked the car, went inside, filled out a form.

Later, Evil Scott put a shameful thought in my mind: What if I had just driven off? Then Evil Scott realized that the station had his credit card number. (Good Scott does all he can to keep Evil Scott away from Stupid Scott, and vice-versa.)

There would be no need, we agreed, to trouble insurance companies. The young manager told me that repairing the pump hose would cost about $160, unless “the computer needed to be re-set.” A few days later, the itemized bill arrived:

1 E/W 4005 3M NOZZLE EX $69

1 12.5 G.Y.P. CO/AX HOSE $99

1 EMCO 90 ANGLE SWIVEL $54

Computer Reset . . . $40

So the young manager was a bit optimistic. Oh well. Add the tax of $20.30 and my “damage due to drive-off” bill was $282.30, pushing the price of that fill-up above $300.

Whenever Stupid Scott costs me money, I try to comfort myself by thinking of it as an idiot tax, something we all pay from time to time, though I may well be approaching the upper bracket. It was only a few months ago, after all, that I had a minor traffic accident. Evil Scott blamed it on the other guy, Stupid Scott blamed it on himself, and Good Scott figured it was 50-50. The stupid insurance companies, naturally, agreed with Stupid Scott.

And there is always the lingering question of cosmic justice. Is the Almighty punishing me for some moral misdemeanor? If so, what? Is it that I’m burning too much fuel by driving too fast and running the air conditioner? Is it that I should play less golf and do more to help mankind? (But then why would he have allowed me, after my late arrival, to shoot one of my best rounds ever?)

At any rate, things could have been much worse. I’ve since learned that, several years ago, a woman in Rochester, N.Y., did pretty much the same thing and somehow ignited a fire.

That time, the “damage due to drive-off” included the destruction of several cars and the service station itself.

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Scott Harris’ column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. Readers may write to Harris at the Times Valley Edition, 20000 Prairie St., Chatsworth 91311. Please include a phone number.