Al Batt, Tales from Exit 22

I couldn’t help but notice that I was driving a Buick.

I don’t always know if I am on foot or horseback, but I am quite perceptive at times. I was behind the wheel of a Buick.

I knew it was a Buick because it said “Buick” on the steering wheel. When I was a lad, the Buick was often referred to as a “doctor’s car.” I thought it was a car driven only by doctors and old guys.

Generally, I can be found behind the wheel of a Pontiac. That’s why they are no longer making Pontiacs. The Pontiac is a perfect car for me. Pontiac stands for “Poor Old Nincompoop Thinks It’s A Cadillac.” The “check” light insisted on brightening the dashboard of my Pontiac. It didn’t brighten my day. I called the dealership. The shop foreman told me to bring my car to him. I asked if he had any idea how long it would take. He said that it depended on how fast I drove there. My car proved that it was not a hypochondriac and went into the shop for repairs.

I am unable to do car repairs. To me, working on a car is like eating a tough steak with a plastic spoon. I don’t work on my car because I don’t want to have to walk to town. It’s not quite four miles to town and nearly the same distance back.

I don’t blame my car. Cars have problems. Mine is a great vehicle. It gets me places. It’s not a vehicle that goes only where it is towed.

A woman was waiting at the car dealer’s as my Pontiac was being examined. She was having her car checked after going off the road to avoid hitting a deer. She told me that she saw the “Deer Crossing” sign, but the deer had come from the opposite side of the road. She added that she had no choice but to hit the ditch. She giggled as she informed me that it was just like her stretch pants. They had no choice either. She added that she was glad she had been driving a Buick.

The Buick I was driving was my Pontiac’s substitute. When the fact that I was driving a Buick dawned on me, I ran to the mirror. Actually, I didn’t run anywhere. I parked the Buick that I appeared to be driving (when I go to Disney World, I park in the Goofy section), pulled down the visor, opened the mirror encased in that visor, and there, framed in a lighted mirror, was an old guy. The fellow reminded me a bit of my father. I had a question for this man. I wanted to know why I was driving his Buick and what he had done to my reflection. Then I noticed something else. I was wearing my “Minnesota: It could be worse” sweatshirt. The old guy in the mirror was wearing the same sweatshirt. He was me! I was him!

All my life, I have, right or wrong, considered the Buick to be a car that is driven by people with many miles on their odometer and doctors. It’s not a bad thing. It was just what I thought. Buick was an acronym for Big Ugly Indestructible Chrome King.

Now I was driving a Buick, and I’m no doctor. I had switched cars and that had changed my mirrored image from an interstate highway to a gravel road.

The transformation did not delight me. It was as if I had been punched in the stomach. It wasn’t as bad as the feeling I had after I ate the tuna casserole Mrs. Johnson brought to the church potluck one year. She had spilled gas in the trunk. The gas had been meant for her lawn mower, but she was unable to find a cap for the gas can and the drive down the rough road to her home had spilled much of the fuel. That was in the same trunk that she put her tuna casserole to take to church. I ate the casserole. I had to. It was a church potluck. It wasn’t good. It was a tuna gasserole.

The Buick was a wicked good car and a constant reminder that driving down the highway is not a competitive sport. I don’t have to drive fast. A Buick is supposed to be moving slowly in front of a long line of cars because Buick drivers are leaders.

Buick’s advertising slogan is “Drive beautiful.” How can I with the ersatz me in the mirror?

A previous slogan for Buick was, “Wouldn’t you rather have a Buick?”

Maybe, but not until they get that old guy out of the mirror.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Sunday and Wednesday.