Until I became chronically under-employed by struggling alternative education sites, we used to replace our vehicles every three or four years.
But this current economic downturn is lasting so long, I’m going to have
to get cozy with our 10-year old vehicles – or live in the past.
I
choose the latter.
I
think my favorite car-upgrade was the time we got our first van. Usually, the trade-in process was a
solemn event marked by ritual weeping and speeches. “Goodbye, Fiat Spider! I’ll always remember my first
trimester when I threw up in your console.”
But the
year we got The Van, my family threw up their hands and wept with joy, then
marched to the old car to spit on it.
For
nearly half-a-decade, I had tamped all six of us into a five-passenger compact,
The Battlestar Asphyxia. It was a
four-year Close Encounter with random odors, tandem seatbelts, and the time I
was arrested for driving extra kids to school. (The police thought we were
mooning them, but there was just no space to sit.)
We
traded The Asphyxia in for a van and never looked back. Just hoisted our selves aboard the new,
gluttonous freighter, dancing with Wanderlust and listening for an echo from
our feet.
It was
overcast the day we launched The Van.
After fastening all six of us into our very own restraints, I set us
adrift with the pedal…I in the driver’s seat, Dad in the back, the babe in the
front who prepared for her nap.
The boys – cresting moons out one spacious window – gave a luster of
mid-day to compacts below.
Suddenly, we heard the prancing and pawing of rain on the roof.
My hands
blindly traversed Mission Control to find a windshield wiper switch, activating
cruise control, the high beams, my left directional, smooth jazz, and finally,
popping the hood.
We
pulled over to consult the manual.
Twenty
pages later, the wipers were clearing my view with a soothing rhythm that
flowed with smooth jazz and we were on our way.
What a
jolt I got when I checked my side mirror.
Some Bozo was right on my rear fender, gaining with impossible
speed. I tried to shout out the
window but I couldn’t roll it down, and I was afraid to beep the horn lest I
ignite the airbag. So I shouted to
myself, “What kind of asshole would
drive so CLOSE!?”
Six-year-old Zachary looked behind to determine what kind and replied,
“It’s not an asshole, Mommy, it’s the back end of our VAN!”
The baby
chose that moment for a Houdini Car Restraint Escape where she deflates and
slips to the floor like a noodle.
But the Van’s Revolutionized Harness System would not permit a safety
breach.
It
locked at her chin like a noose.
I
screamed and leaned to where she WOULD be in a Compact, but undershot by
half-a-yard, toppling face-first into the abyss between our seats.
The Van
veered to the right.
My
husband made several feckless attempts to unfasten himself – confused by too
many buckles – and accidentally released the six-year-old.
He might
have released a ballistic missile.
Zach
vaulted four rows of seats from rear to front, flipping like a Ninja and
whooping a War Cry, ‘til he dropped before his sister, whose bulging face
testified to oxygen’s triumph over man.
By now
I’d negotiated the climb from floor mat to my seat where I marshaled The Van
into a controlled wheelie.
360
degrees later, we were pointed in the right direction, listing in breakdown
mud.
Zachary,
with the strength of an addict on crack or raw plutonium, flattened the baby’s
face with his fists to squeeze it past the restraint.
His
technique evinced in me odd seizure symptoms where I twitched and gurgled in
horror. But he did it. The baby wriggled free like released
aquatic life, then shot under the dashboard to chew wires.
By then,
the rest of the family chewed through their own restraints to join the tangle
up front.
As we
huddled together, breathless from each other’s exhale, it was The Battlestar
all over and we finally felt safe.
Space –
and more of it – is not always the final frontier.
