CAROUSELAMBRA: The Dead Pedal

The parking brake in a 1997 Buick LeSabre is a pedal. It’s not as sporty as a quick-pull lever, but Buick did not seem to have sportiness in mind when they penned their best-seller. Now, if one were to put enough pressure on this pedal, it would immediately lock the brakes, either bringing the car to a quick halt or keeping it from rolling without provocation. I suppose the reasoning behind its placement there, way off to the left next to the driver’s door, is to prevent those suffering from stick-shift withdrawal from accidentally prohibiting any further movement when intending merely to put the car in gear. Since I live in the perennial flatness of West Monroe, Louisiana, I’ve never had the opportunity to verify that the thing works. Frankly, I really don’t have any desire to depress the thing while in motion, either.
         But what if, while cruising at about eighty-five on a pleasantly boring stretch of I-20, I decided to move my cool-sock-covered left foot over to it and push it down with roughly the amount of force I would use to put my foot in a shoe?
         The effect would be immediate: With the parking-brake lamp screaming at me from the top of the dashboard, the car would be forcibly taken of all desire to proceed. Pained groans would emanate from the seatbelt tensioners as they attempt to whoa every last one of my 138 pounds. Friction from the motionless tires would create a din that not even Buick’s (excellent, might I add) Quiet Tuning could exorcise. The electrically-boosted steering would send the car into frightening course changes with even the slightest panic-induced flick of the wheel, and turning the wheel any farther than half a centimeter in any direction would send it into a Tilt-a-Whirl ride that nothing anchored to the ground by four-thousand-odd pounds of metal, fake leather, fake wood, and Led Zeppelin CDs should ever be able to take. The amount of spins would depend on the road surface, its condition, and the rate of speed, but any amount of amusing things could happen, like the radio attaining maximum volume, the resetting of your trip odometer, and various unwanted seat adjustments, just to name a few. In the event that the reader should ever wish to attempt such a thing, it would be advisable to do so on a stretch of road surrounded and/or populated by nothing larger and/or more damaging than a grasshopper, like the parking lot of a derelict K-Mart. Wherever you decide, the shit you’ll take in your pants will probably the best you’ll ever take.