COLUMN: e85

I did a really dumb thing. 

I've been debating all week whether to even write this column. Honestly, I was planning on sweeping this entire episode under the rug forever and telling this story to precisely no one ever. But if owning up to my stupidity can help even ONE person as clueless as me out there, it's worth the shame. Besides, none of you can make me feel any worse about this than I already do, trust me.

Remember last week when I wrote about my phone getting stolen? That wasn't the only major drama that went down that night. Earlier that same evening, the "check engine" light on my car's dash came on. Sadly, my car's starting to reach the age where occasional warning lights might not be uncommon. It was driving just fine, though, so I nursing it along over the weekend, hoping it was a simple sensor issue. I made a mid-week appointment to get it checked out.

It was a sensor, alrighto -- one that was trying to warn me that my car was being murdered.

I dropped the car off at my dealership around 8 a.m. and got the diagnosis a couple hours later: my car was full of bad gas. It had already done serious damage to my spark plugs. Their immediate recommendation was to drain the fuel tank, install a new set of spark plugs, and perform a full flush of the entire fuel system. The estimate was staggering. How could this have happened?

How could this have happened? On most Fridays, I get off work, go home and chill for a bit, then head out to my weekend side hustle, slinging records at dance clubs until the wee hours. But this past Friday, in-between Jobs 1&2, I opted to play on a team at a charity trivia night. I needed gas, so I left the trivia event with JUST enough time to swing through a gas station, drive home, get my DJ gear, and make it to the gig with minutes to spare.

It was shortly after I filled up the tank when the warning light first appeared on my dashboard.

I was in shock over my car getting poisoned by some gas station, but there was nothing I could do to prove it. I didn't have a receipt or anything, but I wanted to let them know about the problem, so I sent an e-mail to their corporate customer care center, and was surprised to get an immediate response. Within hours, I got a call from the district manager, who was super nice and went back and pulled up their security camera footage from that night.

"Pretty sure I found you on the tape," he said, confirming my car's model, color, and the shirt I was wearing. Then he said words I wasn't expecting: "Do you know what e85 gas is?"

Let the record state, I did not. Let the record also state that I sure do now.

e85 is a fuel blend of 85% ethanol and 15% gasoline. It burns cleaner, costs less, and is good for the environment. Unless, of course, the environment in question is the internal combustion engine of an older model Hyundai. It is considerably less good for THAT particular environment. e85 blend is only compatible with certain (newer) car models. Mine isn't one of them. My car was indeed poisoned, but it turned out the attempted murderer was ME.

Flabbergasted, I conducted a quick straw poll of my close friends. Based on their comments, it appears everyone on Earth has known about e85 gas for years and I've been living under a rock. As God is my witness, I had never heard of e85 until last weekend.

I'm fully aware that I can sometimes be ridiculous. I'm not exactly brimming with common sense. I can't swim. I have no earthly idea how to snap my fingers. I usually wear slip-ons because I'm lousy at tying my shoes. But seldom do I find myself ridiculously uninformed like this. I read the news every day. I drive around aimlessly and have visited hundreds of gas statioms over the years. How is this an entirely new thing to me?

Apparently e85 pump handles are yellow and say "FLEX FUEL," which is how I'm supposed to know I can't use it. I saw it and just thought "FLEX FUEL" was some cutesy name for their gas. Shell calls THEIR premium gas "V-Power" and I have no idea what that means, either, but it doesn't destroy my car when I pump it. I had no idea "Flex Fuel" was something you used to euthanize old cars in record time. 

I probably should just claim that I was in a hurry and not paying attention. That's still dumb, but its at least somehow better than thinking "flex fuel" was a silly name for gasoline and then pouring it into my car without a second's hesitation. I guess I'm just lucky I didn't elect to top it off with some diesel and a splash of antifreeze for color.  

So, yeah. I feel like a moron. But my mom didn't know what e85 was, either, so I'm not the only one. Maybe there's a handful of other people out there unfamiliar with the car-destroying yellow gas pump of doom. And maybe I just saved them from a similar fate. That doesn't make me any less of a moron, but at least perhaps it makes me a HEROIC moron, and I'll take what I can get this week.

Lesson learned. I just wish this particular lesson hadn't cost as much as a college credit hour.