Mattress

The cabin has been a godsend over the last year. A pandemic-free place of peace and board games and late-night bawdy R rated comedies with Elijah. 

At just a couple hours away, it’s an easy Saturday/Sunday vacation. The only bummer is the occasional snowstorm. There is a stretch along 94 that acts as our nation’s snow magnet. If Chicago gets half an inch, they’ll get 45. 

I’ve white knuckled it more than once, passing giant twisted abstract art pieces made of SUVs while Diana and the kids gleefully scroll Twitter and TikTok in their protective passenger bubbles. 

We even had to cancel our last few trips because the weather report said, “Might get a teensy bit of the white stuff (wink wink).” But last weekend was gloriously melty, so we packed up the van and headed north for some mud stomping. I made my secret spaghetti, we drank wine and whisky and the mud covered dogs fought over the best spot in front of the fireplace. Normal Rockwell, eat your heart out. 

The next morning, we hit the road on the early side, as Diana’s alcohol purveyor status puts her just behind nurses and ER doctors on the COVID vaccine list and she had an appointment. 

After an unnecessarily vicious fight over what fast food to get, we cruised Evanston-ward. We happily listened to zero political podcasts and I tuned in to The Beatles satellite radio station, with their seemingly endless configurations of top ten songs. 

Just as we hit the tangled knot of Chicago’s highway superstructure, the sun hit some chrome in such a way to nail me right in the eyeball. My left eye turned into a gaseous ball of fire. But that’s why they invented two eyes. And who was I going to complain to? The blind lady riding shotgun?

Just ahead I saw a weird pile of snow in the road. Must have fallen off a truck. Why slow down? It’s just snow. In fact, why not speed up a bit?

The snow kept looking weirder and weird until I realized it was not snow. It was a big old mattress in the middle of the road. Why someone thought sleeping in the middle of a highway was a good idea, I’ll never know.

I immediately slammed on the brakes. Say what you want about the suburban sadness that is the Chrysler Pacifica, the thing stops. We came to a rest right before the filthy bed. After the screaming ended, someone (I assume Luca) said, “Dad! There is a mattress in the middle of the road.”

Before moving again, I requested that all car occupants, including the dogs, praise me for my fast thinking and Mario Andretti-esc skills behind the wheel. But then I looked in the rearview mirror. A giant semi was barreling down on us, the driver thinking, “Why slow down? It’s just snow. In fact, why not speed up a bit?”

I slammed the car into gear and cut in front of some poor schmuck in the middle lane, barely missing the mattress, the truck and about twenty angry drivers. My heart rate didn’t lower to normal levels until we crawled into the garage.

I collapsed onto the couch and watched all the Fast and Furious movies for research.