Last World: Hell On Wheels

One woman's ordeal with car-killing speed bumps, and a duct tape-wielding husband

by Nancy Zintak

January 7, 2008

H ere’s something fun: trying to buy a car! It registers right up there with chewing glass and squeezing lemon into a fresh paper cut. First of all, the pleasure of sitting on car websites for hours at a time is immeasurable.
  
And who knew the legions of ailments one enjoys from sitting all day at the computer? I’m not sure, but I think I have phlebitis — my right leg periodically goes numb, and now there’s a shooting pain up my entire spinal chord (that is, when I’m not completely numb from the waist down). At first, I assumed I was having a stroke, until I lived. Then there’s my neck … the strain of squinting and staring at tiny little postage stamp-sized pictures of cars can be excruciating. So I’ve taken to wearing a neck brace to support my head as I begin my daily excursions into computer car shopping.

  
And all this because of a city of Atlanta metal plate. It started a few weeks ago while driving home from soccer practice on a residential street with speed bumps.
  
Coming from a neighborhood that resembles I-85 during rush hour, I’m especially sympathetic to intown neighborhoods and take great precaution to drive with care.  I was driving thus, when, while cresting a speed bump at a gentle 18 miles per hour, all 6,000 pounds of my 1996 Buick Roadmaster station wagon landed on an unsecured corner of a metal construction plate. The plate then proceeded to ricochet up and explode through the front end of my car, causing the air bags to deploy, the windshield to shatter, and the two kids in the back seat to let out a shriek that well-rivaled the blare of my now-unceasing horn.
  
We jumped out of the smoke-filled car, sure that it was on fire, but quickly realized that it was actually the residue from the air bags, which resembles smoke and smells a hell of lot worse. My husband was dispatched via my urgent cell phone call, complete with the background of my blaring horn and lots of neighbors shouting words of concern.  Naturally I was prepared to photograph the scene, call the police, contact AAA and our insurance company.
  
Then along came Mr. “In Charge,” aka, my husband, who never needs any help. As long as he has some coat hangers, needle-nose pliers and WD-40, he’s fine. So, he immediately took to the task of disengaging the horn, then, with knowing, grandfatherly pats on the back, he sent the concerned neighbors back into their homes, assuring them all that we were fine and would handle things from here.
  
Then, with the leer of the Grinch, he shoved the driver’s seat air bag flush left, so he could attempt to start the car, which, miraculously, it did. Then, with shards of glass sifting through his hair, off he drove. I was speechless. I took the kids to dinner and by the time I’d arrived home, my thrifty husband had vacuumed up the entire windshield and duct taped the air bag back into the steering wheel.
  
“Tomorrow we’ll have that windshield replaced and she’ll be as good as new!” my husband announced cheerily. So, secure in the knowledge that if I exceed 25 mph, the car will certainly explode into tiny pieces, I have begun to search for a new car. Preferably one with a horn, working air bags and a windshield, as it does tend to get a bit chilly in the winter.