1/11/08
The past 20 years of S's and my domestic abodes have superficially resembled that famous drawing of the Ascent of Man, from tree-dwelling van and trailer to shambling class A to upright club-wielding doublewide to (ostensibly) civilized suburban cheesebox. One feature that doesn't change in either evolutionary line is speed bumps. For the troglodyte, it's disease, disaster and fellow troglodytes. For us, it's, well, speed bumps. Like, decidedly physical humps in the resolutely material road.

Driving any sort of portable housing forces you to get up close and personal with a variety of obstructions, from malfunctioning dump stations to suicidal squirrels, but the most common is bunk pavement, whether accidental or predetermined. You'd think that people driving 25 feet of marginally designed overweight rolling stock would have the sense to take it easy in the parking lot at Lost Oasis State Park and Wildlife Refuge, but no-o-o, everybody wants to be Mario Andretti (dating myself here) (but I hear that's healthy...) getting back to Palooka on Sunday night. So the Path of RV is indeed fraught with slowdowndammit reminders. lining the accessways of Vacationland USA and the pockets of flybynight construction companies. It's the American way, b'gad -- get used to it.

But even after forsaking the free and easy world of portahomes and rented dirt, we remain the tormented victims of bottom-bashing road warts shaking the undercarriages out of our various vehicles. Our fair street, 18th Avenue SW, boasts a straight-as-a-Boy-Scout mile stretch with no available exits. Like a funhouse ride, once you're in, you're in for the duration. This gave rise to intransigeant dragster action by strangers wondering if they were ever going to get out of this place and, sometime before we moved in, to the installation of deterrents. Yes, it's the Mile Long Trailer Park, kids, is this great or what?

It would be snarky and not altogether accurate to say that the housing along our stretch of road isn't all that different from the Shady Grove Sanctuary For Wayward Surprisingly Affordable Manufactured Homes, boasting as it does abundant examples of a style of architecture I call WWII Boeing Bachelor Bungalow, 400 sq ft and all the lawn you can fit on a postage stamp as long as you leave room for the postage. It's downright astounding how teensy these things are. Of course, that's a good thing if you happen to be a Boeing Bachelor -- just think of the time you save on housecleaning -- but anybody else caught in one of these no-cat-swinging-allowed closets might feel that an Airstream would be an improvement, especially since you could, you know, drive away. We, however, dearly love our little loaf of bread (slice of kitchen, slice of bath, slice of bedroom...), mostly for its incongruously huge and wild back yard, but also by transference of leftover years of misplaced affection for small wee living spaces. And really, it's not that small. (I will maintain a straight face, I will maintain...) So we tolerate the necessity of scaling the heights of Mt. Rushmore, K2 and the other tumors festering in our extended driveway.

Our recent purchase (okay, maybe "purchase" is too strong a word...) of a mildly disabled wheelchair van has brought me back to confronting the horde of sleeping policemen guarding our frontier. The new vehicle came to us with a host of features -- lowered floor, automagic side door and ramp, removable front seats -- but its wonderful convenient airbag kneel system (which let it do that sink-down thing buses do to allow wheelchairs access to the lift) arrived most inconveniently busted, leaving it in a permanent state of supplication which led to it bumping its lowrider ass on every cigar butt and worm cast it encountered, let alone our local suburban obstacle course. Having determined from the outset that I wasn't going to fix the setup (the Mister Fixit School Of Repair, Rule 12: mo' mechanism mo' problems), I eventually settled, after much futile expenditure of time and wallet insulation, on rebuilding the springs to hoist the rear end higher off the tarmac, giving the buggy a decidedly jackrabbit look and a ride that could charitably be described as turbulent.

However, this in turn has brought me up against what I (inevitably) perceive as a Metaphor In Motion. The new car has a big hole where the front passenger seat would be, the better to park my fair sweetie and her friendly rider mower, and this tends to distance me from anybody else riding along. I can either grunt and sweat the regular passenger seat back in (only to remove it again whenever S is transported) or consign my fellow travelers to the questionable comforts of the rear bar seat, stuck as far back as possible to accommodate said rider mower's all-encompassing maneuvers. Not only does this make light conversation difficult ("I SAID..."), but the rear seat, situated as it is directly over the highly-oversprung rear wheels, delivers Richter 7 jolts to the hapless rider on the slaloms and swoops of the 18th Ave SW Rolly Coaster, assuming I go faster than an arthritic tortoise.

You're probably ahead of me on this. You're probably already in the shower. Here I am, driver of this magnificent vehicle, master of all I survey. The open road stretches before me, mine to conquer. But what's this? Chaff from the back of the bus? The (ahoo) passenger is dissatisfied with my piloting? What are these "bumps" you complain of? I certainly don't notice anything amiss. The ride seems perfectly fine up here. Aren't you just being a trifle sensitive? Where's your strength of character? We all have to face a few bumps now and then. I certainly can't be moderating my behavior for your benefit, can I? Who purchased this vehicle? Who buys the gas? Who went to the trouble and expense of remounting those springs you seem so critical of? Be grateful you're not out walking in the rain...

A-a-nd cut!

Just remember: in the back seat, no one can hear you scream.