I find the button to pop open the gas tank inside the door, then unscrew the gas cap.
More pictures of my father—including some in an orange jumpsuit and some with him holding up a bottle of counterfeit wine—appear on the video screen as the reporter hustles through covering that he used company funds to purchase fake vintage wine from a scam artist.
And then there’s my name.
I look back at the video screen.
And there’s my picture.
Fuck.
Three other people are pumping gas, including one on the other side of the pump from me.
I duck my head and shove the nozzle into the gas tank, except it won’t fit.
The hell?
Why won’t it fit?
I angle it differently and try to push it into the hole, but it doesn’t go.
It hits the rim of the tank and stops.
I shove.
It doesn’t move.
I shove harder, but nottoohard.
A fire broke out at a pump at one of our Nevada franchises last year, and I do know a thing or two about metal-on-metal causing a spark.
So why the hell won’t the damn nozzle go into the damn hole?
I look at the pump, still keeping my head down. The guy on the other side of the pump isn’t looking at me, and the newscaster has gone on to talk about expected weather in the Pittsburgh area.
But I don’t want to draw attention to myself.
There’s a little diagram on the pump.
It shows the nozzle going into the hole for the gas tank.
It doesn’t show Superman.
There’s no picture with a specific diagram of how the nozzle fits in the hole.
Did I buy a defective car?
Is there something wrong with my car’s goddamn gas tank?
What the actual?—
“Problem, Captain?” Daphne says next to me.
Jesus.
I’m in flannel and boat pants, and she’s in a cocktail dress.
I don’t want to think about what this looks like.
