Sammy's Dad and the Gadget

Okay, so I want to tell you about Danny’s newest toy and, by association, its tremendous effect on our marriage. (Obviously this isn't exactly about Sam, but it happened in the vicinity of Sam, so maybe that counts.) It would only be fair to preface this by saying that Danny's acquisition of this device was marked by enormous forethought, budgeting acumen, and a commitment to delayed gratification. Basically, Danny was sitting in a traffic jam on South Boulevard one day feeling hugely annoyed. Suddenly he spotted an Office Depot. As luck would have it, he still had the $50 gift certificate that his dad gave him for Christmas, and this led to the idea to go inside and purchase something useful—perhaps a box of paper for the fax—instead of fuming in traffic.

Upon entering, however, he spied a manly display of man gadgets and was drawn like a fly to potato salad. These sleek contraptions with crystal clear screens the size of a human palm were GPS devices. As traffic thinned outside, Danny’s mind also thinned into one muscular pulse of desire. A testosterone-enhanced thrill coursed through his veins as he pressed buttons on the displays and fondled the plastic packages. The universe had shifted, for what is traffic to a man with a gadget? The cage of a car becomes a Man Palace if he has a shiny gizmo to connect him to hunks of machinery floating in outer space....

* * *

About a week later we are scurrying to leave for a road trip to Orlando. Frazzled, I finally climb into the driver’s seat of our minivan and discover an unattractive black object hanging bat-like from my windshield. A smile twitches at the corners of Danny’s unshaven mouth. He looks at me triumphantly. “I keyed in the address of our Orlando hotel!” “Into what?” I ask. “Into that,” he exclaims, indicating the object with his eyes. “What is it?” I ask. “A navigational device,” he explains with great economy of words, and takes a swig of coffee. “Oh.” I pick up my print-out of mapquest directions and wave it in his direction. “That’s nice.I have these too.”

“Mapquest is a thing of the past,” he declares, swigging more dark coffee and gazing sagaciously into the middle distance.

“Oh,” I say, feeling like a dinosaur. I am so technologically challenged it's pathetic. I fold my mapquest print-out and stuff it into a pocket of the door.

“I have to look for houses all the time,” Danny continues. “I have to use mapquest. And that means printing things out, you know. What if the directions are wrong? Or what if I have to go from one house to the next, but I printed directions from the office? This is much better. Much better.”

“Okay!” His enthusiasm is contagious. Besides, I want to be a good sport.

I turn down our short street and an unfamiliar women’s voice suddenly fills the van. In one hundred feet, turn right. It’s the kind of voice one hears emanating from airport equipment, a voice that is meant to sound pleasant, but is so fake that only a guy could appreciate it. I glance sheepishly at the contraption, momentarily conflicted. I think, Gosh, I know exactly where I am, and I should definitely turn left. I hunch my shoulders and peek sideways at Danny. I ease the van left. “Hmm,” says Danny, his brows furrowed. We hit Interstate 77 and head south.

My mapquest directions to Orlando go something like this: Drive hundreds of miles on this highway, then hundreds of miles on that highway, then that one. Really, do I need to contact a satellite to determine my global position when I only have to remember three highways for the next 8 hours? Apparently I do, because immediately the mechanical women’s voice instructs me to exit the interstate and head east. She is very persistent about this: East. In 500 feet, exit onto the Billy Graham Parkway east. In 500 feet, exit onto Tyvola east ramp. In 200 feet, turn east. In 100 feet, east you stupid idiot! We are not 10 minutes from home and already I am being insulted by a lump of plastic that comes preloaded with maps of 22 European countries. I may not know the layout of Bavarian villages, but I do happen to know that Orlando is due south.

Caution, the voice says, apparently changing tactics.
“Caution?” I squeak.
“That’s for the speed limit. You’re going too fast,” says Danny.
“I’m going 11 miles over, for crying out loud.”
“Yes, isn’t it helpful? Take for instance if the limit suddenly changes and you don’t know, this thing knows. It knows!” He jabs his finger at it for emphasis. “It’s gonna save me a ton of speeding tickets.”
“I never get speeding tickets.”
Caution.
“See.”
“See what?”
“You’re going too fast.”
“No, I’m not.”
Caution.
“You’re getting a bad first impression.”
“Oh is that what I’m having… a bad first impression? The thing is 100% incorrect!”
In one half mile, take the ramp to 485 East.
“I don’t know why it’s doing that, honest. It’s been right all week.”
“I can’t continue this discussion in front of Sam.”
“Fine.”
Caution.

Minutes later, we pass some South Carolina pastureland which is home to a flock of billboards. Danny muses thoughtfully. “You know, I think I can turn down the volume on that voice.”

“You mention this now?”

“Well, I haven’t tried it before. hmmm…”

“&*#@”

Caution

“I prefer the voice completely off.”

“You’ll like it turned down. It’s a very different feel.”

“Why don’t you turn it off? When you drive, you can turn it on.”

“It’s not going to be that bad now,” he says cheerfully.

A couple of hours later we stop at a gas station. Danny unhooks the thing from its holder on the windshield and carefully hides it away in the glove compartment. I look on, hoping against hope that this is the end of the voice and the wrong directions.

“Whenever you stop, you should put this thing out of sight,” Danny instructs. “They get stolen all the time.”

“Who would want to steal it?”

“Well, it’s expensive, for one thing.”

“What, like 40 or 50 dollars?”

“Hah! Try $250.”

“$250??” I gasp.

A look of recognition creeps over Danny's face. “Well, with my dad’s gift certificate, it was just 200 dollars. It wasn’t even top brand.” He says this as if he is a victim.

A couple of hours later we are cruising down the highway when the female voice purrs, In 500 feet, turn onto Otis Snyder Melon Road. I note the distinct absence of an exit ramp. However, there is an overpass for a 2-lane country road. As we zoom beneath it, I read the small sign on the side of the concrete: Otis Snyder Melon Rd.

“Did you see that?” I ask.

“Yes, I did. For some reason, it really wants us to get off the highway and go to the coast.”

“So ‘it’ wants us to go to the coast?”

“I don’t know,” Danny shakes his head, mystified. “I don’t know.” I sense that some manly part of him is being defeated, perhaps even humiliated. Compassion puddles inside my heart.

After a very long day, we arrive in the outskirts of Orlando. The gadget kicks in with constant directions, all of which are inexplicably correct. In a few minutes, we have pulled up to our hotel. Once we have off-loaded and are settling in, Danny disappears. I spot him down below sitting in the soft glow of the interior van light. The evil gadget is in his hands and he seems to be pushing buttons, shaking it, turning it over. He must be so disappointed. Warm, huge, goopy love seeps into my heart.

After a little while, he clicks into the hotel room sporting a huge grin. “I figured it out!”

“What?” I don’t look up.

“It was set on “bicycle.”

“Bicycle?” I’m incredulous. “That’s a setting?”

“Yes, yes! All day it’s been trying to get us off the highway onto safer roads.”

“So the gadget was right. You just had it set on… bicycle.”

“Yup,” Danny chuckles and shakes his head back and forth. “I love it. Bicycle. Hah! Bicycle.”