Fear and Trembling in Yokosuka, Part V: Laughter and Gas Rationing

Last night was restless. An intensity 6 earthquake sent me stumbling toward the dining room table just as I was getting ready to power down the computer and trudge up the stairs to bed. That dining room table is suddenly my favorite piece of furniture; I'm going to stick a dust cloth and can of Pledge under there so I can polish up those legs on my next dive.  That table has treated me well.  It's time I started returning favors.

Between 11:00 pm last night and 7:00 am this morning there were 19 aftershocks.  I slept through most of them.  This will come as no surprise to my husband and children.  What might surprise them, however, is that I slept through most of those aftershocks because I was absolutely exhausted from laughing.  For that I am indebted to a cadre of friends and acquaintances around the globe who distracted me with their entertaining comments on facebook for the first two hours following the earthquake.  I experienced every type of laughter known to man and possibly invented a new version of 'borderline hysterical'.

What else can you do?

This morning I saw a message from the base commander that the gas tanks at the Autoport had been replenished and that each customer could purchase a maximum of ten (10) gallons.  The base commander encouraged us to avoid long lines by waiting until later in the day to collect our ration of gasoline.

"I wonder how THAT is going?" I asked myself mid-morning.  (There's a lot of "asking myself" going on here right now in the absence of anyone else to ask but, so far at least, I'm managing to do it without moving my lips.)  "Let's go investigate," I said to self.  "Great idea!" I congratulated self.  "Take precautions when you dress," I reminded self.  So I pulled on the Ancient Mariner's almost equally ancient U.S. Navy sweatshirt and tugged the hood over my tresses before marching out the door and briskly hiking the four or five blocks between my house and the Autoport.

By the time I reached the Autoport, the base commander had issued a new directive, further rationing gasoline to five (5) gallons per customer.  To put this in perspective for owners of those dinosaur SUVs, some Japanese automobiles have a 7-gallon capacity.

Autoport Manager directs customers into four orderly lines

While many car owners seem to have ignored the advice about waiting until later in the day, I have to give them credit for lining up in an orderly fashion. What struck me as odd was the number of non-military middle-aged men wearing lanyards around their necks behind the wheels of those cars. I say non-military because a) they were not in uniform, b) their hair was rather long, and c) they sported physiques that strongly suggested they had not passed a physical fitness test within the last six months (or even six years). Those neck lanyards made me suspect the men were civilians employed by various "military support" enterprises such as the Navy Exchange, MWR, Commissary, and schools.

My deeply-ingrained work ethic chimed, "Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!  You're supposed to be at work.  You would scream bloody murder if your doctor or dentist cancelled your appointment so they could dash off to the Autoport for their ration."

Oh, wait. There's more:

Turning around, I saw a line of cars stretching from here to the proverbial eternity.  The drivers, bless their hearts, were waiting patiently to be waved into one of those four orderly lines.

The Autoport serves all military personnel stationed here, not just those of us who live on the Main Base.  There are not enough houses and apartments on the Main Base to accommodate everyone who works here so many people live in satellite housing areas either near Yokohama or on the other side of the peninsula.  And there are also many people who live in Japanese rental houses scattered across the peninsula.

So far no one seems have thought of granting some sort of priority to the people who live outside the Main Base and have to use their cars to get to work.  Maybe they've thought of it, but just haven't worked out a reasonable system yet.  Let's hope that's the case.  Because I, for one, am more concerned that the emergency physician who lives twenty minutes from the base has enough gasoline to get to work than the teacher who lives across the street from the school.

When it comes to mass hysteria, though, I am ashamed to admit that I'm no more immune than those people waiting patiently in line at the Autoport.  Walking home, it dawned on me that perhaps I should see how much gas was in the tank of my car.  The Ancient Mariner, dream husband that he is, topped off the tank in late January before abandoning me to my own devices.  Six weeks.  Hmmm.  That's a pretty long time.

Whew!  My fuel gauge assures me the tank is still half full.  (I know.  Incredible, isn't it?)

How many gallons do you suppose that is?  How much do you suppose a car-addicted person would be willing to pay for a gallon of gas?  How much do you suppose one of those siphon things costs?

Just kidding, of course.  I would happily give it away free to any physician who needs it.