DRINKING DOUBLES AND THINKING SINGLE

Is that a song? My friend Willie and I used to hit the town every Friday or Saturday night. "She's drinking doubles and thinking single" was his favorite saying for soccer moms out on the prowl.

It's a wake up call to fill the 35 gallon tank on the diesel pickup every two weeks. Today it was 90 bucks. That hurts.

I'd try doing that bio diesel thing but I think pouring Crisco into the tank would be just as expensive. If diesel goes any higher I'll be trying that. A spatula, a can of Crisco and Old Bob will be on the Thinking Green band wagon. I could name my truck: The Lean, Mean French Frying Machine.

"Bob? Are you cooking fries in that truck?"

My favorite pump station is just down the street from the local rescue mission - the place where transients have the opportunity for two hots and a cot. Back in the day we'd call these people bums or hobo's. In this new century of political correctness those terms have been reduced to one: Transients. Are they really going anywhere?

The guys and dolls from the mission frequent my favorite station. Whether it's 6 in the morning or 11 in the evening, the boys and girls are there.

I paid for my 90 dollar tank of diesel this morning and just behind me was a 24 year old lady looking like 80 years old. Tough life with lots of hard miles she no doubt has lived.

Her: "Fill 'er up."

Huh? I just saw her walk in from the direction of the mission and not drive in.

Apparently the clerk knew what she was asking for. He reached into the adjacent cooler, pulled out three 40 ounce bottles of malt liquor and put them in a bag that must have been made for a purchase like this: They fit like a glove.

Clerk: "There ya go with some high octane. She's all filled up. Yuck! Yuck! Yuck!"

It was 7:00 a.m. The "fill 'er up" thing must have been for a picnic later on this afternoon. As I put my credit card back in the wallet she glanced at me with "that look". I knew then she had already been drinking doubles and probably was single. I looked away as if I didn't catch the invitation. Back in Shakespeare's day the boys would have called this "young" lady a "sausage wallet" if you get my drift.

As I was about to leave a man driving a small red pickup came in, pulled a 40 ounce bottle of Miller's out of the refrigerator and told the clerk, "Give me 10 bucks at the pump and this $1.99 beer." Again, at 7 in the morning.

Beer and 7:00 a.m. don't go together, do they? I must be missing something in the translation of what they live and how I live.

Frequent flier has taken on a new meaning.