Mary Ann Fitzmorris / L’Observateur / July 10, 1999

I am developing, and passing on my children, an embarrassing compulsion.

What is worse, it is born of necessity.

Every time the car door opens, the one who got out must check the ground for debris that may have fallen.

Such paranoia might cause one to imagine that there is something valuable in my car. Not true. What might fall out of my car is basic, run-of-the-mill garbage, and plenty of it. Also, clothes, schoolwork andshoes; lots of shoes. So many shoes. It has become a favorite game of mydog to snatch one when the door opens. We never leave the house actuallywearing shoes; we just find some in the car and put them on.

This phenomenon is not limited to me. I can identify a friend’s car in aparking lot by the contents strewn about the interior.

In fact, one of my friends, who is impeccably groomed, with a house that could withstand any unannounced white glove, once told me a story that confirmed the possibility of my worst fear.

Once, when dropping her kids off at school, a couple of petrified chicken nuggets fell out and dropped on the principal’s feet. She was dulymortified.

After comparing cars and such stories for a while, I have come to think of this phenomenon as Van Syndrome, although there are some exceptions, such as a woman I know who had to have her beautiful sedan fumigated.

Shortly after, she got a van.

It affects people in all social strata, who have one common link: children.

The garbagemobile is so familiar to the kids they don’t even notice it.

Usually.

Yesterday I drove home a polite young lady when my car may have been at an all-time low. She was belted in amidst papers and books in the backseat. It was unavoidable; I had to comment. “I guess it’s time to clean up the car, huh?,” I said, more than a little embarrassed. “Only if you want to,” she replied, catching a paper that hadblown across her face. That kid could work for the State Department.I am not always so understood. Recently a friend of my son’s was in thecar, and after rummaging through the garbage for awhile to get a toy, he remarked about the mess in the van.

I asked if he had noticed any other messy vans. He acted like that was anunderstatement. “You bet,” he replied.I told him there was a little known law, called The Trash Van, whereupon each family had 90 days from the purchase of a new van to enjoy the delightful new car smell. Leather interior people get six months,because it smells extra good. Then they were required by law to trash it.He looked at me dubiously. “Really?,” he asked. I nodded. We rode insilence, as he pondered this for a while He looked at me again. “Really?,he asked.

“Really,” I replied. “Is your car messy?” I asked. “Not at all,” heanswered. We continued. “And what kind of car do you have?” I asked,knowing full well. “A Ford Taurus.””So that’s not a van, right?,” I persisted. “Right,” he said. “See what Imean?” I fired back.

Shortly after this conversation, we arrived at his home. When he openedthe door I shrieked, “Did anything fall to the ground?” He checked and looked at me with a mixture of surprise and pity. Or was itfear? “No ma’am.”I smiled and shrugged, “Trash Van Law.”He walked to the door, occasionally glancing back, keeping one eye on me.

He just wasn’t sure.

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