workshop, where I placed it next to the charger. I headed back outside with increased purpose, and followed the outer edge of the building. Tucked in a back corner where most people would never look, there was a thicket of overgrown bushes. Underneath I saw the glint of metal and began pulling away the leaves and branches, revealing an old gas generator tied into the office building.
With a rush of excitement, I ran back to the workroom and rummaged about, eventually coming up with a small gas canister and a hose. Back at the RV, I prayed there was enough gas inside for us to steal some, then opened the tank, inserted the hose, and placed the canister on the ground. Pushing the hose inward, I heard a liquid spoosh . My heart raced. Rosa looked at me like I had gone mad. In my haste, I’d neglected to tell her anything about what I was doing. Now I put the loose end of the hose in my mouth and sucked. I jammed the hose into the canister and after a second watched as it filled with a clear brown liquid. Gasoline, thank God, pouring into the canister. I tried my best to estimate how much it would take to power up the generator and get some charge on the battery, while still leaving enough to drive the RV. In the end, as a total guess, I siphoned off maybe two-thirds of a gallon of gas.
Next I had to worry about the generator. I brushed it off and opened the screw top to the fuel tank. Delicately, I poured the gas into the opening, splashing a few times, cursing my jittery old hands. With the canister dry, I had a quiet, almost desperate moment of reckoning. I closed the screw top, reached for the pull chain to start the engine. “Wish me luck,” I said, winking at Rosa.
“Luck,” she said drably.
I pulled. Nothing.
I pulled again. Nothing but the slightest sluggish whir. I checked the choke, thanking my parents silently for insisting that I know something about this when I was young. Pulled it open. Tugged again. Nothing. Once more. A little rumble. Hope sprang. Again I pulled, feeling the strain already in my shoulder and arm. The motor sputtered, coughed, almost gave up... and then ran so high I thought it might blow. Rosa stepped back, surprised. Remembering something else about the choke, I rushed to push it in, almost too quickly. The engine slowed, came near to stall, but finally evened out. I looked at Rosa, unbelieving. A wide grin spread across my face, and she couldn’t help but follow suit. Then I ran back inside. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing?” she yelled.
In the workroom, I flicked on the light switch, checking for power, but nothing came on. In the fading light of day, I saw the bulb was missing from the overhead fixture. I’d have to leave it to luck. I plugged in the battery charger, turned a switch. A tiny red light appeared, and I laughed out loud. “We’re going to charge this battery!” I was giddy. “Or, well, I hope we are. If the gas holds out.” I connected the battery to the charger, checked the gauges. It really did seem to be working.
“How long does it take?” Rosa asked, peering over my shoulder.
My smile faded. “That’s the problem. This is a trickle charger. It’s called that because it trickles the charge into the battery a little bit at a time. My guess is, as much as eight hours.”
“Eight hours?” she asked. “You really think that little bit of gas will last that long? And what do we do in the meantime?”
“I guess we wait.”
* * *
We holed up in the workroom, afraid that the noise from the generator might attract undue attention. It was a nervous night, but we finally dozed. It must have been around three or four o’clock in the morning when something suddenly woke us up. It was silence.
“What happened?” Rosa asked, groggy but wary.
“The generator died. Ran out of fuel.”
“Now what?” Her eyes looked at me in confusion, hope, tiredness.
“In the morning, we
With a rush of excitement, I ran back to the workroom and rummaged about, eventually coming up with a small gas canister and a hose. Back at the RV, I prayed there was enough gas inside for us to steal some, then opened the tank, inserted the hose, and placed the canister on the ground. Pushing the hose inward, I heard a liquid spoosh . My heart raced. Rosa looked at me like I had gone mad. In my haste, I’d neglected to tell her anything about what I was doing. Now I put the loose end of the hose in my mouth and sucked. I jammed the hose into the canister and after a second watched as it filled with a clear brown liquid. Gasoline, thank God, pouring into the canister. I tried my best to estimate how much it would take to power up the generator and get some charge on the battery, while still leaving enough to drive the RV. In the end, as a total guess, I siphoned off maybe two-thirds of a gallon of gas.
Next I had to worry about the generator. I brushed it off and opened the screw top to the fuel tank. Delicately, I poured the gas into the opening, splashing a few times, cursing my jittery old hands. With the canister dry, I had a quiet, almost desperate moment of reckoning. I closed the screw top, reached for the pull chain to start the engine. “Wish me luck,” I said, winking at Rosa.
“Luck,” she said drably.
I pulled. Nothing.
I pulled again. Nothing but the slightest sluggish whir. I checked the choke, thanking my parents silently for insisting that I know something about this when I was young. Pulled it open. Tugged again. Nothing. Once more. A little rumble. Hope sprang. Again I pulled, feeling the strain already in my shoulder and arm. The motor sputtered, coughed, almost gave up... and then ran so high I thought it might blow. Rosa stepped back, surprised. Remembering something else about the choke, I rushed to push it in, almost too quickly. The engine slowed, came near to stall, but finally evened out. I looked at Rosa, unbelieving. A wide grin spread across my face, and she couldn’t help but follow suit. Then I ran back inside. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing?” she yelled.
In the workroom, I flicked on the light switch, checking for power, but nothing came on. In the fading light of day, I saw the bulb was missing from the overhead fixture. I’d have to leave it to luck. I plugged in the battery charger, turned a switch. A tiny red light appeared, and I laughed out loud. “We’re going to charge this battery!” I was giddy. “Or, well, I hope we are. If the gas holds out.” I connected the battery to the charger, checked the gauges. It really did seem to be working.
“How long does it take?” Rosa asked, peering over my shoulder.
My smile faded. “That’s the problem. This is a trickle charger. It’s called that because it trickles the charge into the battery a little bit at a time. My guess is, as much as eight hours.”
“Eight hours?” she asked. “You really think that little bit of gas will last that long? And what do we do in the meantime?”
“I guess we wait.”
* * *
We holed up in the workroom, afraid that the noise from the generator might attract undue attention. It was a nervous night, but we finally dozed. It must have been around three or four o’clock in the morning when something suddenly woke us up. It was silence.
“What happened?” Rosa asked, groggy but wary.
“The generator died. Ran out of fuel.”
“Now what?” Her eyes looked at me in confusion, hope, tiredness.
“In the morning, we
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