Caddy shock

How I spent my summer vacation.

I’m a little late with this assignment. We drove up to Corolla to spend time with my wife’s family during what had to be the hottest week in June, if not all of 2010.

A highlight was my trip to the gas station. I was heading out to get a newspaper one morning when my father-in-law, Paul, asked if I would take his Cadillac and fill her up. Sure I would. As my son might say, it’s a sweet ride. So keys in hand, I headed out the door.

Actually, Cadillac “keys” are not keys. You have a hand-held pod for unlocking the doors electronically, then you’re on your own. The ignition switch, really a button with three options, is hard to decipher without taking a class. Luckily, I’d had a previous lesson from Paul.

The seat automatically adjusts to the preferred driver, which is not me, so whenever I drive the car I feel a little like a 16-year-old peering over the steering wheel.

Still, it was a pleasant ride to the gas station. As I pulled up to the pumps, I instinctively reached for a lever to open the door to the gas filler. No lever on the floor. Maybe it was next to the trunk release button, which was hidden at the rear of the map pocket in the door. Not there.

A mild sense of panic — maybe it was embarrassment — set in as I looked at the array of buttons on the steering wheel and dashboard. They all seemed to be identified by codes only Cadillac engineers could interpret. Nothing hidden along the center console. Nothing above the windshield, either.

Please, am I going to have to call someone? There was no way I could endure the grief: The guy who used to work on his own cars can’t put gas in a Cadillac.

I decided to read the instructions. Popping open the glove compartment, which was reasonably uncomplicated, I found plenty of literature, including a CD or a DVD, and a textbook on using the OnStar system. But no owner’s manual.

Maybe I could get OnStar running and ask one of the operators who help people in accidents how to put gas in a Cadillac. But the instructions were daunting. Plus, there was no way I was going to tamper with any of the settings in this car after spending the better part of a day trying unsuccessfully to help Paul figure out the gadgetry soon after he bought it.

Now what? It was still fairly early in the day, so I was sure Paul would not have his cell phone activated. Plus, I didn’t have his phone number.

I had to do it. I called my wife. She was with her sister driving to an appointment. This, of course, was a great source of amusement for them. But they had no clues, either.

My final, desperate option was to get out of the car and give a shot at seeing if a little coaxing would get the door open without breaking anything. I slipped a finger under the edge. It popped open.

People apparently don’t steal gas anymore, so security is not necessary. You simply push the door in slightly and it springs open.

That left one other mystery unsolved. Where was the owner’s manual?

In the trunk, Paul told me. It was too big to fit in the glove compartment.

This column originally appeared in The Virginian-Pilot.

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