Buying a Tank for Junior

It's a little before 3 p.m. on a summer afternoon, and I'm driving my Honda Civic into a narrow lot that borders a school yard to wait for my two sons to be released from day camp.  Day camp is what you bring your children to during the summer if you work out of your home and you actually want to get some work done.

I coast along, passing parked vehicles, looking for a parking space.  And I realize that every single vehicle I'm passing is a minivan or an SUV.  Every single one.  Most of these things are so big they don't properly fit into the slanted parking spaces.  Several dickheads have parked with two wheels in the next space, like a fat person at the movies whose arms hang over the armrests, not even trying to stay within their allotted slot.

And I wonder, why is it necessary to buy a behemoth when you have a child?  Really.  Is it protection?  You worried about being broadsided by an 18-wheeler?  I guess it's for safety reasons though I sure hear about SUV's flipping over a lot, and minivans getting smashed up in accidents, just as much as any other car.  But it's the thing to do when you are expecting: run down to the local dealership and plop down $30,000 on the latest fortified troop transport to carry junior like the Last Emperor, surrounded by airbags and car safety gear.  I briefly contemplate opening a dealership that sells refurbished M-1 tanks.

I finally find a spot that hasn't been taken or infringed upon, and carefully slide into the space between two hulks, like I'm playing that kids' game Operation, trying not to touch the bloated vehicles on either side.  I turn off the car engine and wait with the windows down.  All around me, I hear engines running to keep air conditioners going.  Because God forbid anyone should have to actually expose themselves to the humid summer air for more than a minute.  One woman even gets out of her car and leaves it running to keep it nice and cool.  That's smart, because now she won't have to be defibrillated when she returns to a smoking hot car.

Then I see the kids, led by the counselors, approaching the fence bordering the parking lot.  I wait in the car as other parents get out, so I don't have to proffer that toothless grin of parental commiseration that says: "hello, I'm a loving parent too, and aren't we doing something wonderful for our child?"  Or even worse, engage in parent small talk, and fumble out something about how many activities the camp offers or the latest and greatest snack pack.

Finally I see my sons coming. I get out of the car, make my way to the counselor as quickly but discreetly as possible, sign for my sons, and walk them back to the car.  I try, like always, to ask them about their day but the boys are quiet, tired from the day at camp, their minds still thinking about the fun they had.  "How was it, guys?" "Good."  That's as much as I get.  I give them some cold water bottles and start up the engine.

We pull out, and follow the line of tanks exiting the lot.  If it weren't for my silly little car, we could have a convoy.

Thin guy in fat land

When I was about 10 or 11 years old I did a little audio show on my portable tape recorder called the Adventures of the Fat Ladies.  It wasn't about fat ladies, though, so much as it was about a thin guy trying to survive in a world ("Fat Land") where everything and everyone was fat. 


I don't think anything has changed. If anything, everything is fatter, and I'm still kind of thin, and I still don't get most of what's going on around me.