It pays not to know how much gas is in your tank. Really, there’s a lot to be said for uncertainty.

I’ve been living with it ever since the gas gauge on my 1962 356 Porsche, which I’ve owned since 1965, broke some 25 years ago. Of course, the Germans provided a backup in the form of a reserve that is activated with a lever under the dash.

But there’s a problem with that, which I’ll get to.

Anyhow, gas was the furthest thing on my mind when I decided to take the car for a spin just to ensure the battery doesn’t die and to keep her nimble although the creaks and rattles show her age. She started right up – always a good sign after a couple of weeks of sitting – and with nowhere particular to go, I got on West Shore Road. I headed south and thought it would be fun to stop in and visit Charles Frigon unannounced.

I spotted his truck and figured I would find him in his garage since the door was open and from the tools it looked like he was in the middle of a project. He wasn’t to be seen, although from the hum of a vacuum I knew he couldn’t be far away. I traced the noise to his boat that is sitting in his driveway.

“Come look,” he said once he saw me. I got a tour of the cabin and the renovations he’s done, including the Formica counter in the galley and partial removal of a bulkhead to open the cabin.

Then he saw the car.

“Wanna go for a spin?” I asked.

He didn’t wait for a second invitation. I worked through the gears and he was impressed with the pickup for such an old gal. I turned onto Warwick Neck Avenue, thinking I’d turn around at the country club, but I never go that far.

The first cough came before we reached Rocky Point Avenue. I depressed the accelerator. I felt the hesitation. There wasn’t the oomph. The motor coughed again.

“Well, it couldn’t happen at a better place,” Charlie concluded. True, we were on a hill and we could coast much of the way back to West Shore Road and a service station.

I reached for the secret answer, the reserve lever. I could tell Charlie was impressed with such engineering. I was feeling pretty confident the engine would spring back to life, but it didn’t. The lever had been left on reserve and now that was gone.

We got up to 15 mph coasting and little by little the forward motion diminished until we were barely doing 2 mph. A car pulled alongside. The window came down. I looked up into the face of a young woman. I thought she was going to ask if we needed help.

“You’re stupid,” she yelled before the car pulled ahead. She was right, of course, I should have thought of gas.

Charlie was laughing. Obviously, the woman had never experienced any car problems or she would have realized coasting at 2 mph wasn’t our preferred speed of transportation.

I steered the car as far off the road as I dared and we came to a stop. Up ahead was Carlo Pisaturo’s old Radio Land building and garage where I could count of finding him when he was a member of the City Council. We headed there, expecting to find someone since the garage door was open. We announced our presence and Kevin David emerged from an office. He had been working on one or more of the vehicles parked outside.

Charlie briefly explained our predicament and I made the mistake of asking, “do you have any jugs.”

This had Kevin laughing, and without getting into the possible interpretations of my question he led us deeper into the garage where there was an array of gasoline containers. He shook a few before coming up with one that contained something.

We took turns smelling the contents before declaring, “it has to be gas.”

Kevin handed us a funnel and we walked back to the car. It took several attempts and splashing some gas into one of the carburetors before the engine came to life. We drove back to the K&K Auto where Kevin looked over the car and I told the story how I’d bought it from a Rambler dealer in 1965 for $2,000. I think Kevin was impressed that we could both fit into such a tiny car because he invited us back anytime we wanted to come.

I didn’t risk going any further than the Harss on West Shore Road where I put in a whopping $16 of gasoline. Charlie didn’t get out. He would have had trouble squeezing back in.

When we got back to his place, we looked at one another and smiled. We agreed we never had had so much fun running out of gas. As Charlie summarized, there was the coasting, the woman yelling “stupid,” Kevin and the gas “jug,” and to cap it off the guy at the Harss station using the windshield squeegee to clean wheel rims. What was he thinking?

How, without running out of gas, would we have ever crossed paths with such a cast of characters?