I can't say I wasn't warned

My car is super basic. I might have been moved to complain about that, if I hadn’t become familiar with what new cars can do to you. They can do some wonderful things, like blast sirens at you if you’re about to plow into someone in your blind spot, so you can have a heart attack just before impact, but they also do way too much. They replace parts of your brain that might never grow back. They make it so no part of your mental apparatus is required to move you across the map.

[Map? What’s a map?] That’s what I’m talkin’ about, Peanut.

But as a 2007 model, my car still has features that did not occur on the cars of my youth. Those cars did not have seat belts, for instance, and modern children do not know the joy of rocketing all the way across the back bench seat when Daddy and his lunch martini take a corner a little too fast. They did have rudimentary warning lights. Those would pop on if your engine was overheating, or your oil was low, or your battery had gone limp. Modern cars will let you know if you’re about to pass the last Starbucks in your EV range. Modern cars will remind you to keep your eyes on the road, on a screen you have to take your eyes off the road to see.

My car has way more warning lights than the antiques. I’m not familiar with most of them. One time I did about five miles on a freeway with the car shuddering something fierce, and there was a new light on the dash, consisting only of a solitary fire-red exclamation point, and I was very worried and wondering if I could make it to the exit, when I finally grokked that it was my emergency brake light. Car smoothed right out after I snapped that sucker off. Other than that, I don’t see many lights. My car doesn’t get to play with the other cars much and isn’t aware that misbehavior is an option.

So I was appropriately alarmed when a new unfamiliar light came on my dashboard just as soon as I started up my car. It depicted a person seated, holding a basketball. Or a large lollipop. Or, possibly, it meant Danger of Pregnancy. I pulled over to consult my owner’s manual. There I found fourteen possible warning lights. Most of them wanted me to check something or other. Windshield wiper fluid, open doors, that sort of thing. Some wanted me to take the car to the dealer, without explaining why. Perhaps it is a court-ordered visitation requirement on behalf of the non-custodial party (the dealer).

Basketball-man just said TAKE YOUR CAR TO THE DEALER IMMEDIATELY. Well hell. I’m five miles away from the nearest dealership. How urgent is this? Should I gun it? What’s going to happen to me if I can’t teleport?

I called the dealer. The dealer, after a five-minute meander through Menu-land, promised to call me back as soon as someone in Repairs could be located. Eventually, a chipper young fellow did call back and asked me to describe the icon.

“Oh that,” he said. “Yeah, that’s your air bag. Something’s wrong with your air bag, or maybe with the pretensioners on your seat belt.”

That’s why they’re called pretensioners. The seat belts are claiming to be something they aren’t.

In the meantime, the dashboard light had gone off on its own.

“Well, if it does come on again, go ahead and bring it in,” my new friend said. Probably shouldn’t gun it though.

I know what this is. My car is underutilized and bored, and it really got a kick out of the emergency brake fiasco.

All I know is, if it had a warning light for bird poop, it would keep the neighbors up all night long.

Happy 118th birthday, Daddy!