RIVER CITY JOURNAL: ANY GOOD MAP BEGINS WITH A MAN WILLING TO ASK DIRECTIONS

Despite the ice Thursday morning, my wife called to let me know about the drop in gas prices at local convenience stores. A penny saved is a penny my wife can put away somewhere safe. That's the motto in our family.

When lunchtime came, I dutifully drove to the gas place, even though the gauge in my car showed the tank was more than half full.

All the lanes on each side of the pumps at the convenience store were full of cars. Other motorists were taking advantage of the bargain prices too.

While my car's tank was filling, a large, red vehicle the kind that's larger than a station wagon but smaller than a delivery van pulled off to one side of the convenience store. I assumed the driver was waiting for a spot to open up so he could get gas.

The red vehicle's door opened, and an elderly gentleman stepped out.

I use the word "elderly" with some caution. An awful lot of folks have decided to put me in that category. But if it will get me a discount, I don't mind letting my white hair do the talking.

After all, a penny saved ... well, you know the drill.

The fellow from the red vehicle started toward the door of the store, but he kept looking my way. Whenever that happens, I tend to stare back, because I'm so near-sighted I can't tell if this is someone I'm supposed to recognize or my fly's unzipped -- or worse.

I have to admit I can't think of many things worse.

By this time, the nozzle on the gas pump's hose told me the car's tank was full. I ran the numbers on the pump up to the next full dollar. I still ignore those dire warnings against topping off the tank. I wonder how many laws I'm breaking.

Confession: I also rip off any tags I see on pillows and mattresses. And when I get sales promotions in the mail inviting me to go to some store and scratch off the little gray window to see how much my discount is, I go ahead and scratch it off at home, even though the sales promotion clearly tells me I will void my super-duper discount by doing so.

That's just the way I am.

So far, I haven't been terribly disappointed.

I headed for the convenience store to pay for my gas. The elderly gentleman stopped me. What he said to me sounded something like, "You've got a lot of gall."

You need to know that my hearing and my eyesight are neck and neck in the race toward total infirmity, so I'm never sure if what I hear is what someone said. I tend to say "Huh?" quite a bit.

"Pardon me?" I said.

"Do you know the way to the mall?"

I broke into a smile. I wasn't just trying to be friendly. I was laughing at myself for misunderstanding the man the first time.

There was another reason for my smile. If there are any men reading this, they're probably smiling too.

My wife, like every other married woman I know, has this unshakable notion that men waste untold thousands of dollars -- all those pennies! -- over their lifetimes by driving countless, needless miles because they won't stop to ask for directions.

Women, for the most part, don't understand the instinct that resides in every man with a valid driver's license. Our quest for mysterious destinations is our way of hunting and gathering even if we've never owned a gun or stalked a dove or cottontail.

I gave the man the directions he was seeking. I was about to ask if I could shake the hand of a man brave enough to stop to ask directions -- in plain view of the two women I could by now make out in the front seat of the big red vehicle.

"Is that the highway to Farmington?" the man asked, referring to William Street, which goes past the mall.

My heart sank.

This man is so lost, I said to myself, he probably doesn't even know what town he's in.

"I came here once on the way to Farmington," the fellow went on, "and we passed the mall."

Being a man, I immediately understood what was going on. The man and his wife -- and probably his wife's sister whose husband, rest his soul, went on to his reward back in '87 -- were on their way to Farmington. The man was lost -- really, really lost -- in a town that could have been Paducah or Carbondale or one of those towns that starts with "St." or one of those French words like "Creve" or "Bonne." What he really wanted was directions to Farmington, but his manly pride forced him to ask for directions to the mall, where he had no intention whatsoever of going, in order to find the right highway.

As it turns out, my wife has been right all along. Most married couples could retire years earlier if men would just ask which way to go once in a while.

I know this is a traitorous admission.

But I'll bet it keeps my home life happy.

My wife counts pennies. I count hugs. We come out about even in our savings accounts.