The Motorized Cooler
Does America need this, is this what we’ve been waiting for?
Two years ago, we went to Tricia’s condo to see her new baby. And after admiring the tyke, her college roommate started telling this fakokta story how she bought a motorized cooler.
My eyes are rolling. I grew up on the east coast, where what’s in a book is more important than what’s on the road. I figure this is some white trash contraption for those who work for the weekend, I mean is this a national crisis, being able to drive your drinks to your party location?
And I never thought another instant about it until yesterday, when we drove out to Burbank, to Tricia’s new abode, for her birthday party.
If someone lives more than ten minutes away in Connecticut, they might as well live in a different state. Densely populated, if it’s more than a three hour drive, you fly. But on the west coast, everything’s stttrrretcchhheddd. A bop up to Mammoth, five hours away? There are people who go every weekend! Phoenix? No problem! We go to San Diego for the day!
So it’s hard to fathom how far away Burbank really is. A music teacher and his wife came from the South Bay… That’d be like driving from New York to D.C. for brunch. I mean we take the 101 to the 134 and…we end up traversing through cities until we get to the foothills, to the location of Tricia’s new house, in far-flung Burbank.
Actually, you drive through downtown Burbank to get there. Which is fascinating, because NBC is nowhere close to the city’s center, Johnny Carson was working in the suburbs of Burbank, if there can be such a thing.
And it’s beautiful. We’re snuggled up to the mountains. I feel like I’m in a completely different headspace. And parked in the driveway are…three motorized coolers.
You see Tricia’s husband Brady had to have one. And Jaime, Tricia’s college roomie, brought two. She’s now a dealer! She was giving the company so many referrals that she made a deal for sixteen, all of which are now gone.
And Brady’s an easygoing chap with a devilish grin. He’s demonstrating the motorized cooler with a wink of the eye. And if Brady’s into it, should I be?
There’s a switch on the back. And really, only two-thirds of the cooler can hold drinks, the other third contains the battery. But there’s beer in there, it’s serving its purpose. Then again, it’s got to be motorized…why?
Brady implores me to take one out for a spin.
Which I’m not gonna do. I mean I’m gonna tremble along at five miles an hour down the driveway to prove..?
No, Brady tells me they’ll do twenty. And I must.
So I get behind the wheel.
Well, I sit down on top of the cooler. Which isn’t damp, but is cold. And I grab the handlebars, pull back the right-hand grip and…
I jolt forward.
This ain’t your mama’s motorized cooler. This is a hot rod!
And after getting my chops up on the driveway, I say what the hell, and pull on to the sidewalk. Where I’m screaming downhill to the point…well, at least the brake worked. But then when I tried to turn around, the whole contraption started to twist and turn, it started to fall over, and that’s when I realized I was being dumb, that coolers should not have wheels, never mind motors, that you should not be cruising through the neighborhood on a blue and white Igloo, never mind cutting donuts.
So I motor on back to the garage and tell the assembled multitude I’m done. That I didn’t bring a helmet, I don’t want to be injured.
That’s when disasters happen. When you’re inebriated and exercise poor judgment.
My drinking days are through, but the older I get, the wiser I am, and I know this thing is an accident waiting to happen.
But then they’re taking babies out for rides. Everyone’s having a rollicking good time. Tricia tells me to take her daughter Belle for a spin, I decline…but I cannot resist the draw of the device. I climb back on.
This time I go left instead of right. This time, when I have to swerve around a pickup truck inching out into the sidewalk, I slow down. This time, I’m grateful for the handicapped cutouts in the sidewalks. This time, I’m up for adventure.
Feeling no need to stay close to home, I journey up the hill, by the school, towards the mountains. I’m feeling the wind in my hair, the freedom in my bones, the power between my legs.
This is so dumb. But it’s so much fun. Ain’t that America?
And when I get back to the house, everyone stops speaking. They’re all looking at me. They all comment on the smile upon my face.
I tell Felice, let’s go out for a spin!
So we each get on our blue and white coolers, Felice picks it up immediately, she’s got a motorcycle license, and we hit the streets.
Where we immediately garner attention. A minivan slows down and the driver leans out and asks…where’d you get those?
We could have sold him a couple right then and there.
And despite her protestations, I lead Felice away from domesticity, into uncharted territory, up, up and away.
It’s illogical. How far can you go on a motorized cooler?
I tell her it’s cool, I’ve been on a long spin before.
And then I get worried. You see the problem with the motorized cooler is that it’s a three-wheeler. Yup, just like the deadly ATVs. I’ve now mastered the skill, but has Felice? When we’re going downhill, will she spin out and die? Concrete is concrete, unprotected heads will break upon impact, God doesn’t know you’re riding a cooler, not a bike.
And the leaves are blowing, our hair is flowing, we’re off on this beautiful trip together. Where should we go next?
That’s right, I’m on a cooler! Which contains the drinks for the party. We’ve got to get back!
Where we resided on a couch proudly until there was an accident. You see one of the coolers lost its brakes. There were scratches and ripped jeans, but everyone was o.k. I saw this coming.
Then again, I’ve now become a member of the white trash patrol. I’ve lived in California long enough to know it’s about how you feel, not how you look. That you’ve got to throw off preconceptions and take a chance. Or a ride. Even if it’s on something that shouldn’t be motorized to begin with!
