Humor by John Christmann
Long May You Run
And just like that I drove away and left the forlorn thing sitting near the side of the road, tarnished and empty and green. I didn’t even look over my shoulder or say a sympathetic goodbye. I just stepped on the gas and exploded away in long forgotten power.
No, it really wasn’t difficult trading in our minivan.
Still, it seems that I should be a little weepy. After all, it is the end of an era. Ever since our youngest children were born that big green box has endured a family worth of car seats, motion sickness, cheerios, juice boxes, coffee cups, legos, backpacks, candy wrappers, loose soccer balls, musical instruments, and decibels enough to deafen the radio.
After ten years our minivan has developed its own peculiar character that no amount of air freshener can eradicate.
We purchased the thing during our inflated infatuation with parental responsibility, at a time when transporting our young family and all of our stuff safely took precedent over bucket seats. At a time when women driving minivans were branded “soccer moms” and men driving minivans were considered a joke.
As opposed to now; when the reputation of minivan moms has expanded well beyond the soccer field and dads are now considered a joke no matter what car they drive.
I bought our minivan in 2001 at a place called the Auto Mall. The Auto Mall stretches across most of New Jersey and sells every car ever manufactured in every color but the one you want. But they offer remarkable deals; they will sell you a car on credit even if you are dead.
My salesperson hailed from Russia. He told me in fractured English that if he didn’t make a sale he would be eviscerated on a used Camry by his manager so would I please buy a car from him. It was hard to resist his enthusiasm.
“You want minivan. Good for kids. Wife play soccer?”
“No,” I replied. “I will be driving it mostly. For the time being, I am a stay-at-home Dad.”
He grew excited. “You no work? We give credit. No broken bones if pay late. What color you want? Have green. Other colors, take maybe six month. I make you good deal on green . . .”
“Well,” I interrupted, “I was hoping you could tell me about some of the safety features . . .”
“Sure. Have seven cup holders. More cup holders than other minivan.”
“Well that’s great,” I said, “but I don’t really need seven cup holders. I was hoping you could tell me about . . .”
“No want seven cup holder? Wait here. I talk to manager.” Minutes later he returned. “Manger don’t want to do it, but he sell you minivan with six cup holders. Today only.”
“But I want to know if it is safe!” I stammered.
“Oh. Very safe. Rated high by safety peoples.”
“What safety people?” I asked.
“Safe safety peoples. You buy now.” He held out a pen and smiled. He was missing a tooth.
From the day I drove it off the lot I never really liked the thing. For starters it was green. And then, of course, there was the ever present reminder that it was a minivan. But over the years, as mud and Fritos ground deep into the carpet gave nourishment to exotic new life forms, my opinion of the minivan changed.
I came to despise it.
The minivan became a metaphor for the part of my life as a parent that feels out of control. The part that is never organized. The part that is continually stopped short and not allowed to accelerate. The part that is always late. The part that dents the bumper backing into a tree.
But that vehicle kept us all safe and held every cup we could spill in it without complaint. That minivan did everything we asked it to do: it transported us in one piece into a new era. An era where it is no longer needed.
I refuse to look in the rear view mirror. I want to gaze in excitement at the road ahead, over the shiny, sleek hood of a modestly impractical car which only seats four of our five family members comfortably.
Obviously, someone will be left behind.
So it is fun to ride in my wife’s new car when I can, to experience the wind in my hair and that fleeting moment when I feel in control of my life again. Until I step into her SUV I just inherited, the one big enough to fit a soccer team.
The SUV that my older son will be driving soon, the one he wants to replace with a Dodge Challenger.
I wonder if I can still get the minivan back.
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