It Took A Rocket Scientist

I just got back from driving my daughter, Anne, to her first semester at college. We left on Thursday afternoon in a jam-packed, rented SUV. Our plan was to drive a liesurely 2 days. It was a nice vehicle with low mileage and almost fit all of the things Anne decided she could not live without for a semester.

Two and a half hours into the drive, Anne opened up the lower of two glove boxes. I forget what she pulled out, but when she put it back and tried to close the glove box, it would not close. Of course, I was driving and could not stop, so she wiggled around the glove box door for a while to try to figure out why it would not close. She could not get it, saying it felt like there was something behind there, but she could not get it out. So I stopped at the next roadside rest area.

I proceeded to wiggle the glove box door, just like Anne had. It did feel like something had slipped behind the back of the box and into the hinge. But, like Anne, I could not get it ot and I could not close the door for fear of breaking it. Still, it was uncomfortable for Anne and possibly dangerous in the event of an accident to drive with the glove box stuck open, so I called the Hertz emergency line. My wait was short and I was impressed that the first question out of the agent's mouth was, "Are you safe?" (If I had been driving the Hertz vehicle the following Sunday night when I got a flat tire in the Milwaukee "Hood," I would have exclaimed, "NO!" Sigh. I should have kept the rental until Monday morning, when it was due to be returned.) So that part of the Hertz service was good. But when the operator found out what the problem was, he put me on hold until I was disconnected.

I called Hertz back and reached another agent. He also put me on hold. The day was waning so after a couple of minutes on hold, I handed the phone to Anne and began to drive. The agent came back on the line just before I exited the parking lot. I heard Anne give him our location so I stopped the SUV,  backed up a little and parked. As it turns out, I should have just kept going because we were instructed to go in to one of the Hertz two rental locations in the town where we had reserved our room for the night.

We did just as instructed, but we arrived in town so late that we could only visit the airport location. The storefront was closed. First, though, we checked in at our hotel. I asked the hotel receptionist for directions to the airport and, being the open book I am, wound up telling her what was going on with the glovebox. She asked if she could take a look, so I showed her. Just like I had done, she wiggled the glovebox door. She said it felt like something was behind it, but she could not see a way to get in there and get it out.

At the airport, I was offered a new vehicle but nobody would help us move things (including a small fridge, microwave, computer equipment, etc.) from one vehicle to the other -- not that we really wanted to move into a different vehicle, but I thought I would ask. I then asked if somheone could just look at the glovebox to try to get behind and get whatever was in there out. I was informed there was no staff to do that. I asked what time in the morning a mechanic would be there so I could come back. The information was repeated: No staff was available to look at the glovebox. I wondered how vehicles got repaired if no staff could repair them, but I did not ask. (No mention was made of the other Hertz location, by the way.) I just left. I was tired.

The next morning, Anne and I decided not to waste time going to the other Hertz location. We wanted to get to her school in time to talk to some people. Instead, we bought some duct tape at the service station where we filled our tank and taped the glovebox as closed as we could without breaking it. We went on without further incident, arrived safely and took care of our business. That night, my parents arrived in town and checked into their room at our hotel.

We all met at breakfast the next morning. As we talked, I told my dad that he was welcome to ride with me if he wanted, but he should be aware of two things before he made a commitment: 1. I play Country music as I drive so that I don't fall asleep, and 2. My glovebox was broken so that it would not close and it might be uncomfortable to ride in the passenger's seat.

No sooner did I say the word, "broken," than my dad's ears perked up.

"Your glovebox is broken?" He asked, eyebrows raised.

With a groan, I nodded.

"What's wrong with it?" He wanted to know.

I told him the problem and why it could not be fixed.

He got up, said, "C'mon, Anne. Let's go have a look," and headed toward the door. I handed Anne the keys, rolled my eyes and just looked at my mom. She mirrored the expression that must have been plastered all over my face right back at me. My thought, "Everybody except the Hertz agent has to look, but nobody can fix it."

Now, my dad is a physicist and, therefore, a problem-solver. He loves a puzzle and is excellent at solving problems (Just one of the qualities that earned him a post-doctoral position on the Voyager 2 design team, I am sure). But what he is NOT is a mechanic. In fact, I asked him to just supervise as I changed my own brakes a couple of weeks ago and he refused, stating he had made such a mess the first time he tried to change brakes that he would never try it again. So when Dad walked back into the breakfast area with Anne trailing behind him, all of about two minutes after he left, I assumed he had seen the glovebox problem and determined, like everybody else had done, it needed to be removed to take out the object from behind it.

"It's fixed," Dad announced.

I was in disbelief. They had only been gone 2 minutes! But Anne confirmed my dad's claim. I demanded to know how it was fixed so soon.

"Well," said Dad. "Plastic has a tendency to be flexible."

I looked at him, stunned. "It's HARD plastic," I protested.

He shrugged, "Ehh... Not really."

Then he continued with his solution to the problem, "So I bent the plastic forward, stuck in my hand and pulled out the object that was keeping the glovebox from closing."

He held up his hand. "Small hands," he announced.

Okay, so a glovebox is not a rocket, but nobody except my dad was able to fix it. So I guess this time it did take a rocket scientist to solve the problem. Thank goodness my Mom brought one along for the ride!