My mother the four-wheeled juke joint

David Sherman

I rented a new-fangled car on vacation, a Nissan Juke – part car and part mother. Only a matter of time before the car tucks me in then helps itself to what’s in the fridge. It hasn’t asked for a blanket or rain coat yet — can’t dull that gleam — but it wouldn’t ask anyway. It weighs a ton more than I do and does what it wants.

I don’t drive it as much as it drives me.

I have a laptop, a tablet, an iPhone and a requisite nest of chargers and adapters and plugs and wires. But when it comes to tech overdose, nothing compares to the Juke. The name evokes a time of juke joints, dance halls, prostitutes and Black blues, a refuge from the cotton fields of the Mississippi Delta. Something was lost in translation. The Juke doesn’t relieve you of the blues, it gives you a dose of them.

The romance of the open road is lost in, to quote Google, “at least around 10-plus distinct sensors; higher‑end models … 30 or more dedicated sensors just for driver‑assistance and comfort features (radar, cameras, ultrasonic sensors, lidar ..." i.e. ‘light detection and ranging.’ (I don’t know what it means, either.) " ... in some cases, cabin and driver‑monitoring sensors, tire‑pressure sensors … dozens of networked computers controlling power train, brakes, steering assist, battery management, airbags, advanced driver‑assistance (ADAS), infotainment, connectivity, lighting, seats, HVAC, and gas” -- the car’s and my own intestinal variety.

Depending on how hip your wheels are, “semiconductor devices number in the hundreds to over a thousand per modern car,” including all the micro-controllers, power chips, sensors, and interface ICs." (Not a clue.)

And, if you’re counting, electronics cost a third to nearly half of what you’re getting juked for a car you don’t understand.

The number of chips and sensors “dwarfs both an early space capsule and a 2000‑era family sedan. In other words, it was simpler to fly to the moon than drive to Loblaw today.

Unlike a space craft, it has a giant screen, about half the size of our TV, to monitor just about everything. When parked and alone, it’s probably watching Netflix or porn. Since it has more sensors than I have brain cells, we don’t really communicate. In fact, most of the time I have no idea what the damn thing is doing. It speaks its own symphony of bings and bongs and dings and whistles, its way of saying, “Pay attention. I’m the boss.”

Cars were first mass-produced by Americans so it’s only natural they’re bred to control.

My partner and I have two cars that have lived a collective 32 years, bred in a bygone era of automobiles that, when you turned the key and pressed on the gas, away you went. Most of the time. Or you called CAA. That is so yesterday. Today you have to call NASA.

They rarely complain except, like us, when age-related injuries occur. Repairs are a thousand here and a thousand there, usually less than $3,000 a year. New cars cost about $8,000 a year for six or seven years, not to mention paying for parts that wear out while you’re still paying for a new car that you probably will never understand and is no longer new.

The Juke, and most of its colleagues with names that don’t evoke cotton plantations and vestiges of slavery, has “accelerator delay.” You press on the gas, the car says, “Think again. I’m napping.”

With patience, the car will eventually move, albeit slowly. “Do we really have to go?”

Once it gets going and you think you’re in control, you’re not.

Try and change lanes, the steering wheel says, “No,” and pulls you back into the lane you were fleeing. It also slows you down, the car asking, “You sure you need to pass? Slow down and don’t forget the sourdough bread and cheddar your wife wanted.”

Exceed the speed limit and speed limit icon on dash flashes and car beeps, “Slow down, asshole.” Pleas to negotiate are ignored.

The screen on dash is obsessed with connecting to my cellphone. It craves conversation, resents being left alone. Seems screens save manufacturers a bundle on knobs and switches and buttons while conniving to convince you to pay more for the latest.

The screen’s selfish habit of demanding attention and taking your eyes off the road is also in the manufacturer’s best interests. While driving into a tree is not in your best interests, it’s an advantage to the manufacturer that will happily replace the car. The driver, however, is not replaceable but insurance will pay heirs to replace car.

Your children or grandchildren, weaned on computers, microchips and sensors, will thank you at the eulogy. And, of course, will understand the car, no problem.

Our Juke joint has more sensors than I have sense and more than a dozen buttons and levers on the steering wheel, none of which I understand.

Our rented Juke, unfortunately, does not play the blues, though, like any good juke joint of days gone by, does shuck and jive.