Bigger rentals? Don’t buy it

The plane was late. There was what airlines sweepingly call “weather” in Atlanta, so we didn’t get into Savannah till after 11.

I walked through a lifeless terminal and descended to the baggage claim. With great relief, I saw that the rental car counters were still manned.

Actually, mine featured two young women behind it. I walked over and gave my name, my credit card, my driver’s license. There was the usual staccato of mystery typing, followed by the sweet rumble of a printer coming to life.

Still, I had a bad feeling. I always have a bad feeling when picking up a rental car.

“We’re giving you an SUV,” the one woman said.

“But I reserved an economy car.”

“It’s all we have.”

“But my reservation …” I was suddenly in an old “Seinfeld” episode.

“It’s not that big,” the other woman said consolingly. “It’s a mini SUV.”

I was livid. And I was not what you would call gracious. This was no way to begin a week in the South.

The first woman told me I could bring it back in the morning and see if a smaller car was available: “We open at 8.”

I stormed out to the lot and found my SUV. My feet barely reached the pedals. I searched in vain for a lever to make proper adjustments. Then I switched on the engine and, sitting as high as I ever have in a driver’s seat, headed angrily into the Low Country.

This was the brute epitome of years of reserving economy cars and getting something bigger. It’s usually presented as a gift: “We’re going to give you an upgrade, Mr. Swick.” But, I always argue, I don’t want an upgrade. I want a car that’s easy to handle, easy to park, good on gas.

How absurd, I thought, as I drove slowly looking for a place to sleep, that while the country is obsessed with oil consumption and global warming, owners of Honda Civics are forced to rent SUVs.

I pulled into the lot of a chain motel and squeezed into an empty space. It was like solving a geometry problem.

In the morning, a new woman stood behind the rental car counter. “I have a problem – no,” I corrected myself, “you have a problem.”

She said she couldn’t promise me anything; there’s nothing they can do if people don’t return their cars on time. But then, miraculously, she handed me the keys to a Chevy Cobalt.

It was what rental car companies call a compact car, a step above an economy. I didn’t protest. It carried me nicely up to Beaufort, around the islands, back to Savannah.

I parallel parked. I breezed across narrow bridges. I filled the tank with two $20s and got change back.

When I returned home I called the manager of the rental car agency and asked him why economy cars were so scarce. Was I the only person in America who liked driving lite?

Actually, he said, economy cars were in constant demand, especially these days with the high cost of fuel. It was not the tyranny of big but the attraction of small that was thwarting my rental desires.

It made me feel a little better. But when I hung up I recalled the rental car lot that night in Savannah: Half a dozen SUVs had sat in formation.

Why couldn’t they have been, instead, half a dozen Cobalts? If that’s what people want.