Oxygen Tanks

I had a summer job delivering medical supplies from a pharmacy to customers in Bountiful, Utah. I drove a white Chevy three-speed pickup that had a weak six-cylinder engine that begged to be driven hard. To make life more interesting, I would take corners quickly, and if the delivery included oxygen tanks, they would slam from side to side, denting the walls of the pickup bed. I never seemed to contemplate the wrongness of this behavior, but often wondered if the oxygen tanks could explode. The old people who needed the oxygen were quiet and sad, and I often had to wheel the tanks past years of their lives that took the form of worn carpet, old furniture and photos of loved ones. They often asked me to change out the empty tank, which I would do, even though I wasn't trained. To my knowledge no one ever died, other than from the inevitable finality of their respective conditions. When I didn't have deliveries, I would hide out in the basement storeroom, hoping that there would soon be another delivery so I could drive the truck and take out my teenage aggressions on the accelerator peddle. This job therapy must have worked. I went back to school and forgot about just how dangerous oxygen tanks can be.