Oregon Public Broadcasting

While BP struggles to cap its runaway oil well, Portland writer Kim Stafford ponders his own role in the debacle.

I pull my old car, Abobe Rose, a 1981 Volvo wagon with lots of rust and broken detail, into the gas pump lane at the BP station, crack the window, and pass my Visa card to the attendant.

"Fill her up with regular, please."

Kim Stafford

I hear the clank of the spigot lifted, the clunk of the flow switch dropped, the rattle of the gas cap twisted off, and the whirr of fuel flowing into my rig. The attendant passes my plastic back through the window slot, and turns to the next rig in line, a contractor's monster truck, and then a sport car with top down, and then an SUV filled with children. Quite a line today.

Gas is up to $3.07. A fill-up's getting close to fifty bucks for my old Adobe Rose. How many errands left to go before dark? Well, get the kid to school, drop off the library books, buy dog food, copy those forms for the tax man, pick up something for dinner, get the boy to baseball practice, and then stop to see my mom. It's all good, but my God, that's a lot.

There's a gusher loose on the Gulf sea floor, the slick roiling north toward the coast, marshes in peril, the shrimp catch in jeopardy, seabirds flecked with ooze, and the blame game in full cry.

But as I sit in my aging rig, listening to the whirr and gurgle from the pump, I realize the real gusher is at my end. It may take a miracle to plug the runaway well, but the problem is really here, where I can hear it, smell it, do something to change it.

The president can take on BP, and BP can try to take on its well gone wild. But who can take on me, the citizen who thinks every little thing requires spending oil?

The attendant hands me my receipt. I close the window, and watch the fuel gauge register full. How much longer will this be so?

Kim Stafford is a writer who lives in Portland.