Luv-lee Rita, Hurr-i-cane
Still a little more than forty-six hours before Luv-lee Rita, Hurr-i-cane (nothing can come be-tween us!) makes landfall in Houston, and the place is already a madhouse. While not quite running on fumes, my gas tank was very nearly empty this morning. There was no way that I could make it in to work - and then return home! - especially if traffic kept up the way that it has been.
So I drove the thirteen miles Eastwards down 105 to Cut-n-Shoot, Texas, in search of a pump rumored to be full of gas. Cut-n-Shoot has more claims to fame than merely a full tank of gasoline, mind you. It is also the 'wild-animal' capital of Texas. There is a larger population of tigers there than anyplace else in the world except India, and while India has a greater total tiger population, the population density of tigers is much greater here in Montgomery County. Which leads to some interesting stories in the news every now and again, because as Sigfreid and Roy found out the hard way: tigers don't make great pets.
It is bad enough when the SPCA has to send in Animal Rescue for malnourished, abused or abandoned house cats, right?
On the road to Cut-n-Shoot, I stopped at three gas stations. All three of them were closed, but there were no signs over the pumps to indicate whether they were full or empty. No matter - they were also all the old-style pump which could only be paid for in cash at the counter of the locked and barricaded gas-station. At the fourth station, I hit jackpot. This gas station was also closed, but it accepted credit cards. Given the sheer volume of people at this place nearly sixteen miles off the main evacuation route, I suspect that the only reason this station still had gasoline available was because it was only accepting credit cards.
Cut-n-Shoot really isn't a credit card kind of town, dig?
So when I pulled up and produced a credit card with which to pay for my gas, I was confronted by an older hispanic gentleman of limited english speaking ability and the wide eyes of his children, peering through the windows of their ancient brown Civic. You could see the strain in the wrinkled edges of his face, and the dust on his car spoke of one that was far from home, and not sure when he would be back.
He had cash, and I had access.
An exchange was made, and you could see the relief seep into the man like water in the desert.
After this, I turned and headed back towards my apartment, Interstate-45, and work. Then the announcement came out over the radio: I-45 S had been closed, and was now being opened to Northbound traffic to ease the evacuation. I-45 is the only road directly linking the Woodlands where I work to my home in Conroe. All other options would involve driving at least an hour East or West to then turn back in and head through yet another road for which there was no gaurantee that it would not also have been closed to City-bound traffic.
To spend a day cutting mouse tails at a job I hate, after which I could then look forward to another two-hour drive home?
Unlikely.