The more I thought about it, the more I realized how ridiculous it was to turn right back around after my interview and drive home. I was only 4 hours from New York, so I made a couple of phone calls, climbed back into the car and was off to Gotham for the first time since I had left it nearly three months earlier.
The New Jersey Turnpike has gained a pretty foul and somewhat unwarranted reputation over the years. Sure, it is not the most picturesque road in America (many images of it are featured in a book about the world’s most boring postcards) but it does have a certain charm to it.
Though the drive from D.C. to NYC takes you through four states, the end stretch, which runs the entire length of the New Jersey Turnpike, feels like it takes 10 hours. I think it is the anticipation of being in New York City so soon that instills this feeling. It certainly isn’t because the highway, which plays host to many drivers cruising at 85 mph +, has a reputation for strict speed limit enforcement.
My car is pretty darn fuel efficient, it’s one of the reasons that I bought it. And though it could easily make it from D.C. to NYC on one tank of gas, I opted to get gas near the city so that I could get on the road quickly and easily a couple of days later. New Jersey has a long-standing law that all gas stations are full service, you can actually be ticketed for pumping your own gas. As I pulled up to the pump, an older gentleman greeted me. He asked me what kind of gas I desired and with no irony, I was actually given the opportunity to say “fill’er up.” I then climbed out of the car to stretch my legs and wash the back windshield.
I should have known that this would lead to some discussion because the whole world has something to say and I apparently seem like the girl to say it to. He noticed my Illinois license plates and began chatting about it being a long drive. Somehow this conversation turned into this man offering (I think in jest, but it was hard to tell) to trade his maroon, luxury conversion van for my compact four door sedan. I humored the guy and asked him what kind of gas mileage his van got. He told me about 16 miles/gallon to which I said, “I can’t afford to pay that much for gas.”
This exchange apparently meant that we were friends and he asked me if I had left a husband behind in Illinois. I still haven’t figured out why everyone thinks I have a husband. I’ve looked approximately 19 years old since I was 13. This guy was honestly 65 years old and within three minutes of meeting me he was asking me about my personal life. As I’ve mentioned before, though I hardly ever have an actual boyfriend, when asked by a stranger about my husband/ boyfriend/girlfriend/Malaysian slave boy, I do indeed have one about who I can gush on cue and describe in exhaustive detail. Thank God for an overactive imagination.
My tank was filled, my windshield was washed, my legs were stretched and after paying for the gas, I bid adieu to my new acquaintance and drove away.
As I zoomed down the final stretch of the Turnpike and paid the $6 toll to cross the George Washington Bridge (in true NYC fashion, they only charge you to enter, but they are so happy when you leave that it costs nothing to travel back to Jersey over the bridge) my overactive imagination went to work again. The NJ gas man had probably been doing his job for many years and I wondered if he was happy doing it, how many kids he had, if he had been able to provide for them, if some of them were gas men and women too.
The late winter, mid afternoon sun blared like a car horn as I crossed the bridge and the Manhattan skyline came into view. The scene aroused feelings of happiness and nostalgia. But, for some reason, I kept thinking about the NJ gas man.
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