Hot Chocolate Tea

 I'm losing my mind. 

Rising this morning, I proceeded on automatic pilot to do the usual thing, that being to shuffle from the bed to the kitchen, take my usual cup from the rack, pour a little water into it and then swallow my usual dose of omeprazole. I then decided, unusually, to have a hot chocolate rather than the usual tea. 

I went to the refrigerator to get the powdered hot chocolate, scooped three spoons of it into my cup, filled the cup with hot water, then added a teabag. This did not strike me as unusual until I had done the other usual first-thing-in-the-morning things such as opening the drapes, patting whichever neighborhood dog who had already come in on the head, turning on the TV, and locating my smokes. 

Returning to my hot drink, still happily steeping on the counter, I could not help but notice that something had gone wrong. Why is the water so brown, I asked myself? Well, because you decided to have hot chocolate, dummy. But then why is there a teabag in the chocolate? Because you're a dummy, Dummy. 

Ah, yes. The voice of inner reason, sparking to life like a delayed fuse, had finally spoken. I had done the usual thing and the unusual thing at the same time, and this had rendered the final product unusual. 

Should I drink this stuff? No, I thought not. 

Well then, after breakfast (the usual oatmeal), I headed down to Sanur, as usual, for my usual coffee (no tea, thank you). On the way, I stopped at the gas station, for there was only one bar showing on my gas gauge. Reaching the front of the line, I pulled my bike forward, opened the gas cap, and told the man I wanted 30.000 rupiah worth. He inserted the nozzle of the pump, I retrieved my wallet from my pocket. And then somehow in this space of time, time elongated itself, for it seemed to me that the gas station attendant had withdrawn the nozzle by the time I had withdrawn my wallet from my pocket. 

"No," I said, "I want 30.000." 

"I know," he said. 

I looked at the pump, which appeared to say 3000. 

I pointed to the gauge. "That says 3000. I want 30.000. Tiga puluh ribu, bukan tiga ribu."

"I know," he said, and also pointed to the pump to show me that an extra digit had been added in the form of a zero pasted on a little square of white paper.

Hmm. Surely this was some kind of a trick, adding a number like that on a little square of paper. He could not have put 30.000 worth of gas into the tank in such a short time. Impossible! I peered into the tank.

"If 30.000, it should be almost full," I said. 

The man pointed again to the pump.

"That says 3.000." 

He pointed again to the added zero. 

I peered again into the tank, arguing again that it should be full. And so on. 

"30.000," the man said. 

I gave him the 30.000, figuring I had been cheated and would just have to stop at the next station.

"I don't believe that was 30.000," I grumbled as I closed the gas cap.

"Believe it or not. It's up to you," he said as I walked away. 

People are always taking advantage of foreigners, I complained in my thoughts. They think we're stupid. They think we're made of money.

Mounting the bike then, starting the engine, I immediately noted that my gas gauge read nearly full now. 

Shit! I had stood there and made a fool of myself. Why did I think he had not put the gas in my tank, a man who has been standing there all morning putting gas in everyone's tank? Why did it seem to take such a short time--merely the time it took to reach for my wallet? What, in fact, was I doing during that time? What was my brain doing? Maybe something like making hot chocolate tea, right? 

Well, I felt stupid for the rest of the day, embarrassed. And the attendant's last words kept playing through my head. Believe it or not. It's up to you.

Crazy old man can't think straight. That's what must have been in the poor guy's mind. 

And as with the 30.000, in this too he would be right.