Too Old For A New Truck

 

Well, it’s official. Today I learned that I am too old to buy a truck. On a day when most people rejoice because they have something shiny and new in their driveway, I’m a bit depressed. I’ve realized that what I just bought isn’t a truck with a computer, it’s a computer with four tires; and it may be above my pay grade. 

Think I’m kidding?  Once we consummated the sale, I spent almost two hours sitting in the vehicle while the salesman hooked me up to the Internet,  and showed me how to use every device in the truck (which I’ve already forgotten, by the way). I never thought the day would come when I’d have to go to class after buying a car. I’m fairly certain the Apollo 11 astronauts didn’t have to contend with this much stuff on their trip to the moon. Before he left, the salesman told me to “push a lot of the buttons, read the brochure I gave you, and then we’ll get together in a week or so.” 

He gave me homework!    At this stage of life, I don’t expect homework unless I’ve accidentally signed up for a Medicare seminar. And even then they feed you lunch. Once I left the lot, the first thing I did was pull over somewhere just to figure out how to change the radio station. I used to twist a dial. Now I think I need to log in, swipe up, accept a privacy disclosure, and verify I’m not a robot. Honestly, I’m not sure I could pass a robot test at this point. The truck might come back with, “Sorry sir, you hesitated too long selecting all the pictures with bicycles. Please find a younger driver.”

Long ago, things were much simpler. Once you picked out the color and made the deal, the salesman would walk you to the car with two sets of keys and say, “There’s the gas pedal, there’s the brake, and of course you can see the steering wheel. The key goes right here - but you know that because you just drove the thing, eh? I’m sure you know how to roll the windows up and down. Good luck.” And within 90 seconds, he was headed back to the showroom to get another cup of coffee.

Now? My truck greeted me by name and told me my phone was at 38%. I don’t even remember giving it my name, and I sure didn’t ask it to monitor my battery life like a teenager who wants to borrow my charging cord. 

This rolling computer has mirrors that tell me someone is approaching, a camera that helps me back up, lane-centering assist, and a heated steering wheel. A heated steering wheel! When I grew up, if your steering wheel was hot, it was because the truck had been stolen.

It also has brake assist, forward collision alerts, blind-spot detection, and something that buzzes the seat if you drift out of the lane. I don’t need any of that because I’ve got a wife who does that already. 

I swear the truck has a feature that keeps me from following too closely. If it could also stop me from buying things I don’t need on Amazon, or Home Depot, then we’d really be talking.

And here’s the part that really worries me: I think this truck can drive itself. I hit one button and the steering wheel started moving on its own like something out of a Stephen King novel. If the truck ever tells me its name is “HAL” or asks where I’d like to go today in a creepy calm voice, I’m getting out and walking home. 

And if all this isn’t enough, for the first time in my life,  I’m paying more for a vehicle than I did for my first house.  At that price, the truck shouldn’t just warn me about traffic, it ought to give me a pep talk, make me breakfast, and walk me into the dealership holding my hand.