“Look! Finally. A mid-2000’s BMW 7-series, and it’s unlocked!”
Strolling through the Jeep dealership’s used car lot, I found myself elated at the sight of such a nice example of such a coveted luxury sedan. It’s hot out; not the charming summer weather type of hot. The type of hot that drives one to spend 3 hours in a swimming pool just to avoid the daunting air temperature. Doused in sweat from the blisteringly hot leather interiors of Armor-All caked Chrysler products, I was relieved to see that I’d get the chance to sit in a legitimate luxury car at long last.
I opened up the heavy doors, and plopped myself into the cushy seats.
“Oooh! Power everything. Even the top half of the seat is adjustable”, my 17-year old self thought. “It reminds me of my mom’s F30!”
So there I sat. Perched in my cocoon of fine German engineering and automotive excellence, I ran my fingers along the door sills. Soft, squishy vinyl kissed my fingertips, and everything had such a substantial touch. I thought I was in love.
Now, the time came for me to test out my favorite feature in used upscale cars- the memory seats! Oh, my. How I loved sitting just like the previous owners. I felt around the bottom side of the seat, just as one would in the dark searching for a light switch. I finally came across the recessed buttons. I pressed memory setting number one.
“Wow! It works. I guess these early BMWs didn’t have such shitty electronics after all!” I was quickly proven how wrong that statement was.
The seat moved forward. I thought the previous owner must have been a shorter fellow. I am not a shorter fellow. At six feet three inches, it was getting a bit uncomfortable for me. I figured it would stop in the next few seconds. However, the seat didn’t stop moving forward. My knees hit the bolsters, and it still refused to stop. What started as an innocent test of the car’s features quickly turned into something serious.
I cried out in pain as the seat trudged proudly forward. My legs were completely sandwiched between the seat back and the bolster. My femurs proved stronger than the flimsy trim, however- a few seconds later, my lower half had completely crushed the entire expanse of plastic under the steering wheel, just above the pedals. Completely trapped, I went to reach for the door handle. The car had locked itself promptly after I entered. At that very moment, the seat back began to fold me into what a geometry teacher would refer to as an “acute angle”. My chest was soon mashing into the steering wheel. Thoroughly terrified, I could absolutely not breathe. In panic mode by this point, I knew I needed to act. I reached out for anything. I ended up slamming the unlock button. I proceeded to fling the door open, the hinges narrowly stopping it from colliding with an adjacent Volkswagen Eos V6. The door open, I screamed as loud as I could. To my surprise, a hungry salesman had been approaching the car- presumably to solicit my “contact information”. He ran right over to me. He immediately selected memory function number two, and the seat finally began to release. I was actually crying. The salesman must not have realized the extent of my predicament, and he was laughing.
Not soon after, I retreated back to my Volkswagen Golf. Settling into the manual seats of the twelve-year old German bank vault, I thanked it out loud for never trying to kill me. I drove home without incident, all the while coming up with excuses to why I would never set foot in another BMW 7-Series ever again.