9.05.2012

Gas Mileage Gang Sign

Three. Five. One.

That's what the construction worker flashed me with his hands as I was sitting at a stoplight in my car. Slowly. Deliberately. He was obviously trying to tell me something. I shrugged.

Three. Five. One.

He followed up with another attempt. I looked around. There was no one else he could be talking to. Was he messing with me? Was this some sort of construction worker prank they used to pass the time while baking under the sun holding up a flag to slow people down? He was smiling. My inner teenager began to panic that there was a joke being played on me and I didn't know what it was.

Three. Five. One. He finished it this time by pointing at me. What the fuck was going on? Out of ideas, I flashed the same thing back to him. Three fingers, five fingers, one finger. Point. He laughed and started walking towards the car. I wondered if I had just responded to some sort of challenge. I rolled down my window.

"I bet you get about 35 miles to the gallon in that thing," he motioned to my car.

"Oh. Yeah. About 35, you're right," I hoped he didn't notice my mpg gauge reading 28.

"Sheeeeeeeeit, you can get along just about anywhere then," he grinned and motioned to the stoplight, which was now green, "have a good one, my man."

HOW THE HELL WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW HE WAS ASKING ABOUT MY GAS MILEAGE?

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