It was a terrible drive across the 402 to Sarnia from London last night- with an incredible storm whipping rain in sheets across the roadway, carrying debris, tree branches, and assorted other items flicking through the pool of my headlights while I fought the gusts of wind 15 hours into my trip. All that was missing was a cow.
Added to that was the fact that I wanted to get across the border into Port Huron before buying gas, because it’s a dollar a gallon cheaper in the USA, so I was watching the fuel gauge gimlet-eyed as it kept sinking lower and lower, mentally calculating the distance to go versus the fuel remaining. Since my pickup has dual tanks, I had kept a small reserve in the other tank when I switched last night, just in case.
Finally, I came into a one-lane section of construction, and the fuel gauge mocked me into finally switching to my reserve as discretion finally trumped valor. Customs was the only barrier left between me and cheap(er) gasoline. I’ve been hearing stories of late of people having difficulty getting across the border, not having passports, etc. I pulled up to the customs officer.
“Good morning, sir. Citizenship?”
“United States”
“Have a good day”
Feh. He didn’t even ask to see my driver’s license. Or my birth certificate. I put my wallet back in my pocket and drove on the the second exit on I-69, where I knew that there was an all night truckstop that had reasonably priced gas.
I pulled up to the pump, an island of light in an otherwise dark and rainy night. I went in to hand over the fuel card, and behind the counter, in the cold flourescent lights, stood a tall, seemingly familiar woman. I knew I must have seen her before, in a magazine or movie. There was a moment of dissonance as I tried to figure out what exactly she was doing standing behind the fuel counter at a truck stop at 3:30 in the morning. She took my credit card and I went outside to pump 34.5 gallons of gas into my pickup truck.
As I was screwing on the fuel cap on the first tank, it hit me- she was the absolute spitting image of a young Daryl Hannah. Could be her little sister. Hmm. Like every other guy my age, I had a crush on Daryl Hannah ever since I saw Splash. I finished fueling and went back inside.
There was a problem with the computer figuring out the right price to charge for the gas, so I spent a couple of minutes standing there in front of her while she tried to make the computer do her bidding, until she gave up and had her manager come try it. Her manager couldn’t get it to work properly either, so called some manager at another store for assistance. During all this, my blonde goddess-doppleganger came over and apologized for the inconvenience.
“That’s no problem, these things happen.” I said. “It’s good to have a few minutes rest from driving anyway.” I told her the story of the awful drive through the thunderstorm, just passing the time on a slow night while we waited for the computer problem to get set right. “Did anyone ever tell you you look like Daryl Hannah?”
“Who?”
“The actress, from Splash, and Roxanne, and Clan of the Cave Bear.”
“No. Actress, eh? I guess that’s a good thing, then, eh?”
“Yes, you’re a spitting image of her.”
“I”ve never heard of her.” The gulf between us opened like a yawning chasm during an earthquake. Never heard of her? It seemed beyond belief.
“Oh. Well, she’s pretty good. You really could be like, her sister, you look that much like her.”
Finally, the manager got the computer to do her bidding, but the had to change paper in the printer. Ms. Never-heard-of-Daryl-Hannah came over to me again. “What were those movies?” she asked, sotto voce. I gave her the list off the top of my head.
Finally, I got the slip and signed it. As I went towards the door, my newfound goddess in the night called me back. “Here” she said, handing me a cup of coffee. “For the road, eh?” She smiled. “Thanks.”
“Thanks?”
“Yes.”
I left, the cup of coffee warm in my hands. Back on the road, I pondered the fate that brought me here, at such a godforsaken time of night, to intersect with the life of a complete stranger in a way that might or might not change her.
The coffee was pretty good, though.