I loved my Nissan Frontier, however. It was the first nice vehicle I had ever owned, having replaced a dying white Ford Ranger whose seat belt alarm wouldn't stop and that honked of its own accord once in a while, like an octogenarian with bad gas.
The Frontier, my Frontier, was brand new and beautiful and sat high off the ground. It was solid in the rain and sweet on the rump, with lovely lines and respectable power that grabbed hills with gusto, unlike the old Ford that whimpered every time it came to an incline and skidded its back end like a frightened pony.
But my ride, for which my attachment had grown nearly sinful, consumed fuel like the Space Shuttle in large roaring quantities that came close to melting my credit card at the pump. And 33,000 miles meant major preventive surgery at Gobble's Automotive next time I pulled in for an oil change.
She had to go. But then there was the other vehicle to consider.
My wife Leslie had been faithfully driving economy cars for 15 years, part of the sacrifice we made to be financially solvent in our solidly middle-class, single income home. Now that she had a stable job teaching 2nd grade in the local school system, she felt, very reasonably, that the Honda Civic was looking like last year's last minute prom date. Time for an upgrade, she thought. I agreed.
So, on her birthday, we went to Chatt Town and did the motor mile and drove a lot of metal and upholstery around. We talked to a lot of sales people. We padded our pockets with a lot of business cards. And when all was said and done, we ended up getting the vehicle she had first had her eye on--the new Nissan Rogue. The Civic moved on to Used Vehicle Lot glory, and my wife shed nary a tear.
My turn. Instead of sliding comfortably over into a newer, sleeker Frontier, it has become increasingly plain that a downgrade is in order, so as not to totally unhinge our still middle class budget.
But I wanted to downgrade in some style, so I asked to drive an Altima, which I did and which I liked a lot and before we left the dealership, we had inked a deal for one of those, though when I parted with the Frontier, there were serious pangs of regret, in spite of her wanton octane habit.
The problem is that the Altima has one of those keyless features. This is not good for someone as desperately absent minded as me. Over time, a man develops certain automatic patterns of behavior, patterns that exist primarily so that he doesn't have to think about them. Thinking about them causes dissonance. Dissonance causes indigestion. And stress. And crankiness.
So every time I approach my vehicle, my hand automatically and thoughtlessly descends to my pocket and pulls out the keys. On the Frontier, I would unlock remotely, often from satisfyingly great distances. The parking lights would flash, I would listen for that muffled and obedient "kerklumpf" that told me the doors were unlocked, then I would climb into the saddle, put the key in the ignition, turn it, listen to the cough and whir of the powerful engine, turn up my audio book in the 6 CD changer and be on my way.
But the silver Altima with its black interior mocks me with a sophisticated sneer, like some high and mighty valet, as I approach. Chastened, I put the key back in my pocket and, without needing to unlock remotely, I merely press the little black button on the handle and, voila! the lock slides open softly, elegantly, and with a demure chime informs me that I can enter. When I sit down, there is an indicator on the dashboard to inform me that all I need to do is put my foot on the brake and then push the ignition button, just as one would do in any respectable middle class space craft, and, with a gentle, feline lurch, the vehicle wakens rather than starts. You can scarcely hear the lean, muscular engine beneath your feet. I can't help but be confused by it all.
The crisis came a couple of days ago. I drove in to work, careful to do nothing to offend my new vehicular partner. I parked dutifully in the satellite lot. I pushed the button, as one is supposed to do to turn off the car, and stepped out, grabbing my bag as I did so. When I closed the door, the car chimed at me, quietly but somewhat insistently. I checked the headlights. They were off. Impertinent vehicle, I thought, heading for the shuttle that would take me to my building. As I boarded the shuttle, I turned to make sure I hadn't missed something. Nothing. Strange, I thought, and settled in to swap small talk with the shuttle driver.
I had been in the office for a good fifteen to twenty minutes, shuffling through email and other messages, checking my calendar for the day, brewing some tea, when the shuttle driver made a rather unscheduled appearance.
"The shuttle driver is here to see you," said one of my efficient and polite outer-office staffers. That was curious. I thrust my head out of the door and the nice gentleman was there, with a worried expression on his face.
"Sir, your car is running," he informed me.
"What's that?" I said. I had actually heard him, but the words failed to register.
"Your car is running. I saw the exhaust coming out and checked it. But you locked it, so I couldn't stop it."
"Ah," I said. "It's that button."
By now, the entire outer office and my assistant were very interested and highly entertained by the conversation. Expressions of mirth and delight were on every face.
"Button?" the driver asked.
"Yeah, it starts and stops with a button," I tried to explain.
"You mean the button that says, 'Easy' on it?" my assistant Julie Ann offered helpfully.
"Yes," I conceded. "That one. I think I probably turned off the CD player because I knew I had to press a button...."
They were all laughing at me by then relishing the abject humiliation to which my car had subjected me. I imagined the vehicle, sitting there purring in the satellite parking lot, was having a nice, superior little chuckle from afar.
With my last shred of dignity, I handed the key to my staffer and summarily dispatched him to solve the problem, thanking the shuttle driver for his pains, and returning to my office, wishing I had my Frontier back.
Later that day, sitting in the car, we had a little chat. And I think, but I'm not sure, that it's finished with its little fun. It better be. Or I'll have something to say about it. Yeah.
