Letters From The Loft

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When we finally produced something that looked like the illustration, we opened a bottle of champagne and toasted each other by the light of the burning instructions.  All we had in front of us, besides the completed carrier, was a bag full of mounting brackets and the empty box.  I lifted the box to set it with the rest of the garbage, and noticed one small slip of paper float out of the box and settle on the ground.

 I expected it to say something like, "Inspected by Chimpanzee # 57."  Instead, it was an applications chart, showing which configuration of enclosed brackets would work for designated vehicle models.  The Aerostar, being alphabetically advantaged, was near the top of the list.  And next to it, destined to take the place of "Jerry Springer", were the two most chilling words I have ever seen:

"NO FIT."

Laughing hysterically would have taken more energy than either of us could muster. All we could do was sit down on the pavement next to our misfit carrier and explore our options.  Double suicide was ruled out, since we hadn't lined up a sitter.  Sue suggested returning it for a refund, an idea I vetoed for a number of good reasons.

Reason #1: the same male hormone that prevents me from asking directions when I'm lost would never let me admit to a perfect stranger that I had entirely assembled something without knowing if it would fit on my vehicle. 
Reason #2: fully assembled, the carrier would no longer fit inside my van, so the only way I could return it was to put it on the roof, which I couldn't do because it was a "no fit", which was the reason I was returning it, which... well as you can see, that way lay madness.
And Reason #3: I would not admit defeat to the evil empire that had manufactured this insidious device for the express purpose of squashing my American spirit.  No; by all that was holy, I would make this work.

My wife, sensing that I was about to start humming the Star Spangled Banner, fled to the house.  With my renewed sense of purpose, I single-handedly set the carrier on my rooftop luggage rack, and then went to the garage and unlocked my trunk of bungee cords.

As my family well knows, I place great stock in bungee cords, otherwise known as elastic tie-downs. Their creation has forever freed me from the necessity of tying knots that, no matter how intricate I've intended to make them, always come undone at the slightest provocation.  I am convinced that, with the right combination and application of this marvelous elastic product, I can restrain the earth from rotating on its axis.  And in my modest trunk, in a humble garage in a small American town, there existed the foremost collection of bungee cords known to Man.  This historic night, I would dedicate them all toward a single task: to subdue an untamed rooftop carrier.

I constructed an intricate web of bungee cords, anchored in a dozen places, creating a delicate balance of tension that was sure to resist any force bent on removing the carrier from its perch.  A tornado could descend and whisk my van off to Oz; but when it set down, the carrier would still be attached.

Sue, who had finally mustered the courage to come out and view the finished project, still needed some reassurance that her luggage was not going to make an escape attempt once the van was in motion.  So that night, on the eve our vacation, I conducted a trial run.  I drove out on the freeway at high speed. I drove in the backwash of semi trucks. I made sharp turns. I drove on dirt roads.  I did everything but play Foggy Mountain Breakdown on the stereo.

The carrier passed with flying colors. During the test, it didn't shake, rattle, or roll.  When I returned home and examined it, it had not shifted a micron from its original position. I was vindicated, victorious.  The rays of the rising sun greeted me as I stood there, triumphant and proud, knowing that it was men like me that had conquered Everest and invented Velcro.

Warning Sign #4.