A Dispatch from the Recliner: Running on Empty in 2026

This morning’s almost-daily dispatch comes to you, once again, from my trusty recliner. I am balancing my laptop on my knees and my Xbox controller on the arm of the chair. My brain flits back and forth between my latest gaming hyperfixation, Palia, and tapping out this tale of woe to you, my dear sojourners. The skyline is a particular shade of gray that melts into my non-existent “peek-a-boo” view of the ocean. This morning, the sky and the water are one.

Yesterday was a bad day.

I woke up to discover that I had failed the hands-on skills test to become a certified home health care aide for the State of Washington. Specifically, I failed the skill of “feeding a client.” The irony is thick: I have been feeding my sister since I was eight years old. I have fed multiple students with special needs and individuals with mobility barriers for the better part of 44 years. Imagine my shock to learn that, according to the state, I am unqualified to hold a spoon.

On the other hand, I passed male catheter care—something I have never had to do for another person and have zero plans to start doing now.

A mere eight hours later, my day was coming to an end at a local gas station. As of this writing, May 2nd, 2026, gas stations are places of high stress and increased tension. Fuel prices are at a record high nationwide; people are struggling to make ends meet, and many are stressed about making limited dollars last the whole month.

I get it. I really do.

I pulled into the least expensive station within a 20-mile radius, my tank hovering at an eighth full. Every pump was at least one car deep, so I dutifully pulled in behind a vehicle, turned off my engine, and settled in for some doom-scrolling.

Time passed. Based on the number of TikToks I’d watched, I assumed about five minutes had gone by. I looked up; the car in front of me was empty. I watched the cars in the other lanes do the “hokey pokey”—turning themselves around, fueling up, and moving on. I opted to stay put and resumed scrolling.

Another five minutes passed. Still no activity.

At this point, my “Good Samaritan/Social Worker” superhero decided it was time to investigate. Was someone passed out in the car? Had they experienced a medical episode in the restroom? Had someone simply had a very, very bad day and walked into the nearby ocean, never to return?

I glanced into the vehicle: empty. I made my way into the convenience store and approached the counter.

Two young gentlemen were manning the registers. The one to my left was knee-deep in a situation with a patron; you could feel the exasperation in the air. This customer was a whirlwind of self-created chaos, juggling a pack of cigarettes, coupons, and a pizza order form while counting out change. In the midst of the mess, she was trying to make a phone call to discuss pizza toppings and reward points.

The clerk to the right motioned me over.

“How can I help you?”

“Hey, yeah,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know there is a vehicle at pump four that has been unattended for at least ten minutes. I’m starting to get worried for the driver.”

Concern registered on his face. He began visually scanning the aisles. “I don’t think there’s anyone in the bathroom… How weird. I hope they’re okay.”

As we spoke, the pizza debacle continued to my left. In a moment of pure synchrony, the clerk and I locked eyes.

“I think it’s her,” he mouthed silently.

“It’s her,” I whispered back.

Then, in a fated moment, Pizza Lady chirped: “And I need ten dollars on pump number four.”

Under normal circumstances, I would have stayed quiet. But we no longer live in normal times. The stress of the failed test, the record-high fuel prices, and the ten minutes I spent genuinely worrying if she was dead in a ditch all converged.

If you are of a certain age, you will remember the movie Falling Down. In that moment, I became Michael Douglas’s character, William Foster—the man who just wanted breakfast at Whammy Burger and was told “no” by a world that had lost its mind.

“So YOU are the one who decided to park in a fueling lane and hold everyone up for ten minutes?” I said, my voice far too loud and far too sharp for a Friday afternoon.

“And what’s it to you?” she snapped back.

“It’s rude!”, I yelled, matching her tone and energy.

Then came the kicker. She told me to “fuck off” and called me a bitch.

The young clerks gasped. Eyes wide.

Were they about to witness two middle aged white ladies throw hands?

For a brief nanosecond, my mind’s eye played a feature film of my own ruin. I saw myself landing a perfect, close-fisted blow to her smug, puckered face. I heard the sirens and felt the cold steel of handcuffs wrapping around my wrists. I stood there, balanced on the razor’s edge between the woman who has spent 44 years caring for others and the woman who had finally had enough.

Then, my sweet honey’s voice in my subconscious brought me back to center: “Baby, assault charges… bad.”

I took a breath, turned around, and headed back to my car. As I hit the door, Pizza Lady, in a final act of defiance, yelled, “And I am going to move even slower now!”

I didn’t even look back. I just quipped, “Oh, I am not surprised. You reek of someone who would do that.”

I sat back in my car, turned on the ignition, and determined that an eighth of a tank was enough to get me home and away from her. As I pulled away, my mind drifted north. I thought about Nanaimo. I thought about the quiet streets and a life where 44 years of devotion is honored, not dismissed by a bureaucrat or a lady with a pizza coupon.

If this is what “normal” looks like in 2026, I think I’m ready for a different kind of North Star.

[https://thejoysonajourney.com/2026/04/26/true-north/