Most mattresses do not incorporate aerodynamics into their design.
They lack the lightweight construction of a kite. They do not have the wingspan of a hang glider. They do not possess necessary propulsion components required for flight. There’s no magic carpet supernatural phenomena at play. Any airborne activity is typically attributable to human miscalculation or excessive alcohol consumption. Sometimes those two go hand in hand.
Unintentional mattress flight, when coupled with an automotive vehicle, can be quite the conundrum. It doesn’t matter if it’s strapped to a Subaru’s roof or flopping inside the bed of an F-150. If it catches air, a helpless feeling descends upon the driver. A bit unnerving for anybody cruising behind them, too. This I know from experience.
As I motored through my neighborhood streets, I spied a mattress precariously flopping against the cab of a light duty pickup truck. Cars in the adjoining lane drove below the posted speed limit for fear of getting too close. I tooled along behind the pickup looking for an opening so I could shoot around. I had somewhere to be. The mattress looked fine. That is, until it didn’t.
It probably could have been positioned better in the bed. It definitely could have been ratcheted down tighter. It was exceedingly windy without the added air streaming over the hood and the cab. Enough air worked its way under the mattress and lifted a corner above the top of the Nissan. And that’s all it took for it to float up and out of the truck bed.
I scrubbed my speed as I witnessed the impending predicament.
The woman in the next lane over did likewise. As the mattress shot up from the bed (no pun intended), it made an unexpected lane change, without even signaling. How rude. Fortunately, the other female driver mashed her brakes a bit harder and avoided running over the now landed bed. Thank goodness, because nobody likes sleeping on skid marks (pun intended).
In times past I would have thought “you made your bed, now lie in it” and drove around the debacle. Like I said earlier, I had somewhere to be. However, the Nissan stopped directly in front of me. The driver in the adjoining lane sat motionless due to the bedding obstacle. A young man exited the Nissan, slowly followed by his female passenger.
The young man apologized to the driver next to me. He turned to get the mattress even though his female compadre didn’t really seem like she wanted to help. He hurriedly secured the mattress the exact same way as before lift off. The other lane of traffic began to flow. Cars behind me changed lanes and passed. Normally, I would have joined them. Today for some reason, I got out of my truck.
No, I wasn’t going to start a fist fight in an uncontrollable fit of road rage.
I knew a repeat performance would occur if I didn’t offer some advice and assistance. I recognized the mattress was a memory foam. These can easily get folded in half. He took my advice. We ratcheted the tie back down and it fit securely and snugly in the truck. You might say we put the mattress to bed. O.k., maybe you’d never say that.
It felt good to help him. He clearly appreciated my assistance. By the time I got back in my truck, we were the only two on the road. I’d say about 15 cars passed us while we situated things. I’m sure most of them didn’t know the reason for the temporary stoppage. A slight annoyance in their otherwise routine Sunday afternoon, I’m sure. We handled it while they had somewhere to be.
If I had a reservation at a hard to get in restaurant, maybe I drive by like everyone else. If it was a work day, maybe I don’t stop. If it was earlier in the day when we were running late for church, maybe I pass him by. But blessed are those who are merciful. I don’t typically walk around saying those words or acting them out. But just a few hours before, the application of mercy and grace was stressed to me. Oddly, I actually remembered it. Mattress boy didn’t need my judgement. He needed help, regardless of my plans.
Kind of like one fine afternoon back in 1986 when I sat broke down on the side of I-95 in my 1975 Oldsmobile Delta 88.
Ironically, I was not too far from Mechanicsville, VA. My car simply lost power and I coasted to a rest on the righthand shoulder of the highway. This was particularly frustrating as my brother and I did a fair amount of maintenance and repair to the car the day before. This machine should have been humming right along.
I performed the obligatory check under the hood. The engine was still there. Having ruled out spontaneous motor disappearance, I stared at the hoses, wires, and weathered machinery, completely baffled. Personal smart phones did not exist in 1986. There was no texting somebody for advice. I couldn’t FaceTime my brother to decipher the problem. I couldn’t even call a tow truck. I was kinda on my own.
About that time, a beat up blue and white Dodge International pulled in behind me. The gentlemen inside the rusted truck wore overalls tucked into his boots. I think he had a shirt on underneath, but I can’t be sure. He offered me a ride to a garage in the next town. I was not in a position to decline his offer. I hopped in the single cab truck and admired his shotgun mounted on the rack. He sported coke bottle thick lenses set inside a thick black horn-rimmed frame. They looked as cloudy and dirty as the windshield he navigated through.
It was a short trip and few words were spoken.
This was fine because I had trouble understanding him anyway. For a time I wondered if I had inadvertently volunteered for a lead role in a “Deliverance” sequel. I didn’t want to judge as tons of other cars zoomed passed my stranded vehicle, but he chose to stop. If he had somewhere to be, he put it on hold to help a complete stranger. Still, Ned Beatty kept popping into my head. I never practiced on demand squealing and I hoped today would not be a violation debut.
Thankfully, he did as promised and dropped me off at a local garage. I hopped into their tow truck and showed them where the car broke down. They hitched it up and pulled it back to their shop. I had no idea what this might cost. They sort of had this young college kid over a barrel. Now I feared becoming a proverbial Ned Beatty.
They asked me if recent work had been done to the car. I explained that my brother and I worked on it yesterday. They said a wire from the alternator to the battery had been disconnected which drained the battery. They were amused when I told them that I paid my brother with beers as he helped me with the car. By the time we finished, inebriation had set in. The repairmen assumed he probably knocked off the wire while drunk and hadn’t realized it.
Those mechanics found this so entertaining, they didn’t charge me for diagnosing and fixing the problem. They didn’t even charge me for the tow. Hopefully the one guy that stopped to help me knew these good old boys, heard the story, and got a chuckle or two for himself. Ned Beatty completely vanished from my mind.
I probably shouldn’t have judged a hillbilly by his overalls, but I did. All of the people with money, prestige, and a full schedule kept driving south on I-95 while I stood on the shoulder of the road like a snooty idiot. My Delta 88 dilemma got solved because somebody showed me a little mercy and gave me a bit of grace. Instead of having somewhere to be, it turned out that hillbilly had somewhere not to be, plus the kindness in his heart to know the difference.