“…And it’s got this and that and this and that–and it even lets you know when your tire pressure is low!”
I drive an old bucket of a car. 118,000+ miles and going strong. And it’s cool, I’m not an auto-freak (although I’ll admit to having dreams of a Jag one day). So yes, I was a little impressed by my co-worker’s description of her new Tahoe.
A bit later, a little tired, I’m driving home from work, and decide to indulge myself by imagining I’m driving that huge, luxury-equipped car. Nice, mellow sounds coming from the CD player, floating along, the window half-open to the breeze and heated seats taking the chill out of the night.
Ahhh, yessssss…………….. 
Suddenly, I notice the message on the dashboard.
“Your left front tire is low.”
I blink, frowning. Is that very likely? Hell, I just drove it off the lot yesterday.
The message winks off, then back on. “Your left front tire is low.”
“Ah, well,” I sigh, snuggling back against the soft leather seats. “I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”
The message fades, and comes back stronger. With more words. “Um…hello? Is this an English-speaking country? Did I stutter? This car is calibrated for a perfect balance, and your left front tire is low, lady. See to it, won’t you?”
I begin to move uneasily on those soft leather seats. Squinting and trying to keep my eyes on the road, I look for some errant button I might’ve pushed. Geez, there are a million of ‘em. “What the hell—is this some kinda glitch?” :poof:
“It’s not rocket science, lady. You need to put some air in that tire.”
“Oh, well screw you,” I snap. Whoever heard of dishing it back at a dashboard?! “I’ll get the air when I’m good and damn ready!”
The message dims, and I go happily along my way. Damn stupid glitches. Man over machine any day!
“You just passed a filling station with air, bitch.”
I stare at the dashboard, stunned. Okay. This is becoming one of those bad dreams, some pseudo-Twilight Zone episode that never aired.
Censors. Yes, that must be it…some kind of new sensors that…that pick up on the vibrations of air pumps? Uh-huh. “It’s after midnight,” I murmur, shakily lighting a cigarette and trying to convince myself I’m talking to myself. “It’s not safe to stop this time of night.”
“It’s not safe to drive on tires that are low on air.” The pale blue message suddenly turns bright, blood-red. “And I can make SURE it’s not safe, if you catch my drift?” :twisted:
“Is that a threat? You’ve got the nerve to threaten me?! Listen you ton of tin, I can turn you off–for GOOD–any time I want!”
A blast of winter-cold air conditioning hit me square in the face. “An off-road accident with the body thrown from the intact vehicle is not a pretty sight, dear Raine.”
God! It knew my name! Dear God! Gathering my courage, I wave the cigarette before the dashboard, laughing wickedly.
“You wouldn’t.” A small tremor seemed to shake the huge frame of the monster. “Not the leather seats. You wouldn’t!”
“Try me.”
Something beneath the hood begins to hiss, and I relent. “Okay—what say we cut a deal? You get me safely home tonight, and I promise to get up extra early tomorrow, and not only get your wheels checked, but a set of extra-classy floor mats to boot. Deal?”
The display slowly dies away, and I make it home without any more hassle. Pulling into my driveway with a relieved sigh, I prepare to shut the engine off.
“Raine?”
My hand froze on the key and I held my breath. “Yes?”
“This car is calibrated for a perfect balance, and your left boob sags a little more than the right. See to it, won’t you?”
:shock: :shock: :shock:
