Don't put your futon the gas pedal

Son-In-Law has a very large car. It's a Buick Roadmonster of some vintage or other. These machines are best described by the phrase "That was the last year that they made...". At any rate, he acquired it from a good friend of his who may or may not have known about all the parts and pieces that were on the verge of collapse. So over the past year it has become a money pit, but even at that, it has one thing that none of our other cars have: room.

Tonight J and I headed for darkest greater Cincinnati to pick up the futon that we ordered last weekend. The Roadmonster is the only thing big enough to accommodate a futon mattress. So SIL obligingly removed the High Impact Baby Clamp from the back seat and folded the seat back to floor level. Then we left for the open road which is pretty much clogged these days with unforgiving ice ruts and snowbanks.

Well, actually just before we left I had to learn to drive all over again. I normally bounce around in a 1998 Dodge Neon (called "Neona") whose rear struts have long since been bent to uselessness by her role as the family mini-truck. So here I was, easing into a leather-lined cockpit where the first challenge was to find which of the many chrome buttons would push the seat forward enough for my feet to reach the pedals.

Looking out over the vast expanse of hood, I realized that normal stopping distances and width calculations would likely fail me. And so now I understood why so many old men drive like snails. They're stuck with cars that are big enough for their potbellies, but too long for them to reach the pedals.

Eventually, I found a panel switch that not only pulled me forward, but jacknifed me like a giant clam. "This can't be good," I thought, as I twiddled the remaining controls to neutralize the unwanted embrace.

I started the beast, and after a bit of head scratching, the automatic temperature control decided to spring into action, trying to reconcile 14F outside with 72F desired inside.

J scrambled aboard, and we started off, arguing about which button would lower the steering wheel. A moment of panic at an intersection later and I determined to ignore any further adjustments.

Down Main Street and out to the highway we cruised. It was an experience opposite to the line in Leonard Cohen's Tower of Song: "I ache in the places where I used to play". I found myself tensing up as we approached the usual hazards, like potholes and beaten-down railroad crossings at which Neona would bounce, wobble and bang. What? The Roadmonster didn't even notice these minor annoyances. I could get used to this. I played in the places where I used to ache!

Finally, after our usual one or two excursions into roads that led to the wrong places, we arrived on the scene and I pulled in to the parking lot. J, of course, intuitively knew that all we had to do was drive to the side shipping doors, and someone would take care of us. But as a Canadian I'm so conscious of the need to follow the rules that I went in and asked. And the receptionist said, "Drive to the side shipping doors, and someone will take care of you."

We arrived and a few minutes later, the futon was loaded. Off we drove, back up the street to a Ruby Tuesday's (bar and grill) to indulge in supper before heading home. I noticed that a courtesy lamp in the rear of the vehicle did not turn off, but thought that perhaps it was on some timer or other.

After a dinner that tasted good but embodied the Cajun concept of "slow cookin'" (as in: they sent someone to Jamaica to get a tilapia for my order) we once more boarded the bus for Hamilton, OH. The rear light was still on.

It wasn't until I got home and SIL came out to help cart the futon inside that I learned that this luxury light actually has a small switch on the side. Apparently while being squeezed into the back seats at the loading dock, the mattress caught the switch.

So now, let me confess: although the Roadmonster is a beautiful, smooth-riding relic, I much prefer driving a car that doesn't force you to read the owner's manual before you turn the key. And these days, I prefer a car where you don't notice the fuel gauge unless you've been on a really long drive. But as a truck, it totally rocks!

Neona, I'll never carry cement blocks in you again.