screech.jpg

Cars are almost soundproof containers. I didn’t think that this is was a strategic advantage over my Trek Bicycle Trailer until this week, when my daughter threw fits every single day as I biked her up the hill to preschool. The Trek not only permits unhindered passage of shrill sounds, such as the shrieking wail of an outraged four year old, it’s canvas and aluminum frame seem to act as sort of unpowered speaker-box projecting noise to the surrounding streetscape.

If I was a passerby I might have been wondering; “Hmmm. Sounds like someone’s murdering a small child. Oh—it’s just that bearded freak biking with his child in rush hour traffic. Gas isn’t that expensive is it? I mean that kid must have special needs.”

My daughter’s complaint today was that she needed a stuffy. Even though I had already strapped her in I should have been pleased. At least we had progressed from Tuesday, when she was screaming at me that the stuffy needed it’s own seatbelt.
A long search in her bedroom she produced one and I strapped her in. Then I noticed I was wet, she was wet, and the inside of the Trek looked like it had been rained on. The stuffy she picked out was “Baby,” an anatomically correct plastic boy, who, when filled with water, pees with abandon. My duty as Dad compelled me to overrule the companionship of “Baby” for the ride up the hill. Of course no other stuffy would do and shortly thereafter I was at the busiest intersection in town with a kid that screaming as if she was being attacked by a pack of feral dogs.

I have only one paranormal ability: I can recall and play in brain just about any song I’ve heard more than once. I employed this gift and fired up the rockin’ post-death metal dirge “Child’s Play,” from Carcass’ woefully underappreciated 1996 album Swan Song. A few minutes later the sun poked the clouds and my daughter had stopped crying. When we got to preschool she didn’t want me to go. The Trek Trailer will live to see another day.