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“What?”
“Hit the gas, we’re moving!” I said.
He hit the gas and started inching toward the Porsche.
“We’re going to make it!” Ian cried, exuberant. “I’m going to get past the Porsche and we’re going to make it out of the city!”
It was extremely difficult to keep a straight face. He was quite the sight, with his knees and chest pressed against the steering wheel proclaiming “we’re going to make it!” with the joy of an escaped Allied prisoner spotting the French border on the horizon.
“Stop laughing at me!” he yelled.
“I’m not laughing!” I said. Or would have said if I wasn’t laughing so hard. I kept picturing him on a firetruck carnival ride, going round and round in circles in a tiny red engine and pulling the string that made the bell go ding-ding.
“Do I really look that stupid?” he said as he inched past the Porsche and sidled into the right lane.
I wiped my eyes. “Yes.”
“We made it,” he said, turning right. “Now do you think you can help me out here?”
“Did you try the side of the seat?”
“Yes,” he said. “I keep pushing a button but the seat isn’t moving.”
“Try the bottom of the seat,” I said.
“I did,” he said. “There’s some kind of handle but it won’t budge.”
Still plastered to the steering wheel, he pulled onto Third Avenue, where the speed of traffic increased to about thirty miles an hour.
“I can’t keep driving like this at this speed,” he said. “I’m going to get us both killed.”
“There’s no place to pull over.”
“Just figure something out! You’re the doctoral candidate!”
“Not in physics, I’m not.”
“This isn’t physics! It’s up and down and forward and back.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Physics.”
“Just find the damn adjuster, Clara!”
As entertaining as his current posture was, I had to agree that it was both unsafe and untenable. I unbuckled my seatbelt. “Just hold still and promise not to enjoy this too much.”
I scooted my behind over to the left, turned my body ninety degrees, and inserted my right arm into the tight space between the steering wheel and Ian’s lap. As my hand felt around for the adjuster, it became enormously clear to me that my previous supposition that nothing could be more awkwardly personal than our recent ass-to-ass encounter was misguided.
“Oh my God,” I said. “What did Ijustsay about not enjoying this too much?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s nature at work. I have no control over it. And your gigantic boob rubbing against my arm isn’t exactly helping!”
“For the love of God, man,” I said as my hand searched for the adjuster, “it’s only been five seconds!”
“Actually, it’s been eight months,” he said. “Nature’s been ready to make a big comeback for a while now.”
God, where the hell did Mom hide the seat adjuster? “Could you kindly tell nature to take it down a notch?”
“No,” Ian said. “He hasn’t seen the light of day for eight months. I can’t help it if he’s reaching for the stars.”
