Sometimes, it’s best to gather a few small things together in order to convey the idea that there is a pattern or consistency to the matter.
If you’ll recall my recent tale of how Smuffy removed the hedge I hated with the help of our 1965 Studebaker Cruiser, you might remember Pookie’s reference to another time when he, after leaving his truck out of gear, had to remove it from the trunk of a tree after it rolled down the driveway. If you missed all that, you can bring yourself up to date with “A Studebaker in the Hand is NOT Worth Two in the Bush” here.
Smuffy assures us that he has never been involved in a vehicular accident that was his fault. He may add, with a blush, that the number of vehicular accidents attributed to him while he is not even inside the vehicle is rising to a level that borders on the ridiculous.
Again, it is the assemblage of these events that proves my point that Smuffy and the gearshift lever have relational difficulties and I present my case to you now as thoroughly as if I’ve had Paul Drake on the case and Hamilton Burger itching to object.
For a short time after Smuffy’s documented annihilation of the hedge, he managed to play along with only two strikes against him. Of course, I tried to keep him on the straight and narrow with a word of caution now and then and a helpful tutorial.
Then came the day he asked the boss if he might borrow his truck.
We (mostly me) had been furniture shopping for a year and a half. You know how the struggle goes – trying to solve the dilemma of the look/the space/the price. All this could be taken care of, we discovered, with an hour and a quarter’s drive to a small town north of us. It took several trips to deal with the purchase of the sofa and then came the ordeal of chairs that pleased my eye and Smuffy’s buns and his inherited desire for high-speed rocking. (If Smuffy were head of design at any one of the major vehicle manufacturers, they’d all have rocking seats by now.) We’d been enjoying our new sofa, but the chair selection had dragged on.
The folks in that family-owned furniture store were patient with us and, we were soon to learn, would do just about anything for us. Alas, in November of 2002, the special order chairs were ready.
Smuffy, concerned that our short bed pickup might prove a tad skimpy, had asked his boss for the use of his work truck for the day. We’d become acquainted with shops and an excellent restaurant near the furniture store, so we planned to make a day of it.
As we could only go on Saturday, the store owner had told us that he would be out that day and that only his wife and another female employee would be assisting us. He wanted us to be sure we could handle the loading of the furniture, as he didn’t want to make physical demands on those ladies.
The only thing that diminishes the “what might have been” in this story is the fact that the furniture store was located on flat ground.
As we pulled up in front, there were no parking spots available so we parked around the corner, went in to tell them we’d arrived and ask if they had a place to load in back. A cheery sales lady in the brightest yellow dress and jacket ensemble I’d ever seen welcomed us. At the time, I took it as a sign that she had a sunny disposition. She did. But, yellow is also the color of warning lights.
She informed Smuffy that double parking in front long enough to load was customary, so he ran off to get the truck and I waited on the sidewalk with Ms. Sunshine. He circled the block and just as he rounded the corner, the last car parked in front of the store pulled out, allowing him to ease right in behind a mini-van and avoid having to double-park.
Smuffy, having never been known to waste a precious second, leaped out of the boss man’s truck, ran around to the back and dropped the tailgate. Ms. Sunshine seemed like the vigorous sort to me and I relented after her continued insistence that I hold the door and she help Smuffy. He climbed into the truck bed to heave while she ho’ed and together, they plunked one large box containing a chair and then the other into the back of the truck. Smuffy jumped out of the truck, gave the tailgate a good slam and joined me on the sidewalk.
Then, the strangest thing happened. Ms. Sunshine, as though she and the chairs had been lovers and were about to be separated forever, threw herself over the tailgate of the truck, heaved backward and dug her little slick-bottomed pumps into the pavement!
Yes, the truck was rolling. I saw the mini-van give a lurch, but, all in all, she did exert enough force against that truckload of furniture to stop it and no damage was done.
I still don’t know how she did it – sheer adrenaline, I suppose – but I’m glad she did.
I spun around to face Smuffy.
“You didn’t!” I gasped, as soon as I managed to speak.
He raced out into the street, around the truck and threw his upper half through the driver’s window. I saw his face turn a vivid shade of pink as he moved the gearshift lever into “PARK”.
Some lessons simply must be learned the hard way, I suppose – or maybe not.
We thanked our swift-thinking, fast-acting friend and I forked over the money for the chairs, wishing all the while that I had some left for a fat tip for her. Had we been double-parked…Well, I shudder to think!
As we drove away, I began to quiz Smuffy. Concerning those little symbols on the steering column, did he think “P” stood for “Probably don’t ever need to put it there?” Did he think that “D” stood for “Don’t bother to move this lever anywhere else?” Then, I informed him that if he planned on pleading with me to keep this one a secret, he was wasting his time.
Two weeks later, with the weatherman calling for another beautiful Saturday, we decided to take our pink 1958 Buick Super out on a day trip.
After dropping Pookie off to spend the day with friends, we went antiquing in a couple of quaint, historic towns, one of which had the old-fashioned town square with diagonal parking. I emphasize, at this point, that I was merely a passenger.
We hopped out and made our way around the square, looking in all the cute little shops. As we settled back into the car, I fastened my seat belt while Smuffy turned the key in the ignition. Another point to emphasize here is that some of those old classics can be started in any gear they happen to have been left in.
As we drove up onto the sidewalk, I wondered what all those people on the other side of the plate glass window in front of us must be thinking. But, I must be getting used to this sort of thing, because the only other thing I found myself thinking what a great story this would make.
I tried to be as respectable as possible when I informed Smuffy that this type of thing simply must cease once and for all.
Weeks later, we went Christmas shopping, this time in the 1965 Studebaker Cruiser. Smuffy dropped me off at one store and went to do some shopping on his own. When he returned to pick me up, he apologized for taking longer than he expected and mumbled something about being thankful that the car didn’t need repairs during the holidays.
His explanation gave me that old, familiar feeling. He’d left the car sitting in the parking lot while he shopped. When he returned, he turned the key in the ignition and nothing happened – nothing – not even the slightest sound. Smuffy groaned inwardly as the whole discouraging scenario played out in his mind – how were we going to get home and what would he have to do and spend to fix this thing? Suddenly, his eyes were drawn to those little symbols on the steering column and there it was in good ole’ “D”. This car, thankfully, couldn’t be started in “DRIVE”.
What a blessing that he has stopped doing this on hills!
A certain awareness came over Smuffy after this. Up until now, he thought he could take gearshifts or leave them as a casual user and then came to the realization, too late, that perhaps he couldn’t. Alas, there didn’t seem to be a twelve-step program or rehab center geared for the transmissionally challenged.
After managing to stay on the wagon for a while, or at least keep the wagon stationary, Smuffy arrived home for lunch one day wearing the look of a man who had been humbled by trying circumstances. It seems he’d pulled his van into the parking lot of a convenience store as usual. He stopped, but ignored his craving for coffee and a cinnamon roll while he finished listening to an interesting report on the radio. He then entered the store, grabbed his goodies and chatted with the girl who rang up his purchases.
At this point, everyone’s attention was drawn to the scene unfolding out on the parking lot. A man, after pulling his truck into the parking lot and leaping out of it, began to run at break-neck speed. As they watched, he flew to the door of Smuffy’s rolling van, yanked the door open, jumped in and threw it into “PARK” just as it came within a gnat’s eyelash of striking the gas pumps.
I shook my head at Smuffy’s tale, realizing that the only thing left to do was to put in yet another request for extra angels to be assigned to him.
The real question remains: Can this be inherited? And, if so, how do you know the signs? Shortly after I had documented this tendency in Smuffy to commit endless rolling violations, I came to question his offspring.
From the kitchen, I heard the most terrible banging and stomping and fussing. I rounded the corner to have Pookie inform me that the vacuum cleaner switch was most definitely dead. She’d done everything she could think of and the darned thing just wouldn’t come on. As she shook it and called it names and demonstrated all this to me, I looked at it sitting there with its cord all wound neatly around its little prongs and I sighed.
“Is it plugged in? You might want to check that.”
Pookie spent another five minutes rolling on the floor in hysterics. While pleased that, at the age where self-awareness, lack of confidence and paralyzing embarrassment collide with one another every five minutes, she was able to laugh at herself, I wondered if I should brush this off entirely.
My thoughts turned to that little laminated card in her wallet, recently given to her by the folks at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I closed my eyes, giving thanks that there are enough angels to go around.
My Life With Smuffy has been exciting from Day 1. Read about our Smokin’ Hot Honeymoon. You’ll find, in Smuffy Takes the Cure that I did try intervention. His river adventures here and here might not be something you want to read just before bed.
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