STRANGER THAN FICTION: PLAYLAND THIN VEIL FOR PLOT

There isn't anything like it, that mesmerizing, colorful sculpture in the front window of one of Cape Girardeau's newest fast-food restaurants.

It's not a sculpture, though. It's a three-story playground exclusively for people under 4 feet tall. Large pipes take the munchkins from one little dome to another, until they finally puke or fall into a sugar coma.

A friend of mine has two extremely active munchkins of her own. They are two of the very few children I have any sort of maternal inclinations toward. So, once in awhile, I have to take little Ryan and Kimberly out for Joyous Meals, if you get my drift.

Those two are playland connoisseurs. They know where to get the most fun for "Aunt" Heidi's fast-food dollar, and they know how to disappear into those damn pipes to prevent me from taking them home to Mommy.

The routine is always the same. A Savings Meal for me, two Joyous Meals for them. They eat three fries, take a swig off the child-size drink and then its off to the races.

That leaves Aunt Heidi alone with two untouched cheeseburgers and the vast majority of the fries. Oops! Sometimes Ryan and Kimmy come back looking for their food, and I explain it was given to starving children who appreciated it more than they did.

There's a whole subculture based on those pipes and domes. Parents and-or guardians have to sit for hours sometimes, their food long gone, and watch their children scamper through the playland like gerbils through a Habitrail. What else to do but chat with other adults?

I've met more people like that -- a nurse at Southeast Hospital whose only child is a precious, round-faced little boy with a big smile. A widowed dad whose two blond-haired boys fight over which shake belongs to which boy. Two divorced moms who make it a Tuesday-night tradition to take their total of four kids out for Joyous Meals.

We usually talk about what a great idea it is for fast-food restaurants to have playlands, how cute my adopted niece and nephew are or what's hot and what's not in Power Ranger paraphernalia.

But one dad wasn't in the mood for complementing fast-food restaurants.

"It's a diabolical, capitalistic plot utilizing children to get to their parents' pocketbooks," he growled. "You never see these play centers in the BACKS of the restaurants, DO you?"

He had obviously consumed one too many preservative-laden Savings Meals.

But onto a different topic.

THE REST OF THE STORY

About the drunk driver who nailed my car on Dec. 8, 1994.

Instead of opting for five minutes in the back alley with nothing but him and a baseball bat, I politely dealt with his insurance company. If anyone ever asks me about that company, they should prepare for a barrage of profanity like they've never heard before.

First, I had to fight for the rental car. THEN, just after I accepted their settlement, I got a phone call from the rental car agency telling me the insurance company wouldn't be paying for it anymore. I called Tim, the friendly claim adjuster.

"Tim, this won't work," I said, clenching my teeth. "Your making me an offer doesn't automatically provide a new car for me."

"Well, you are free to pay for the rental yourself," Tim said.

"If your insured wasn't a drunken idiot, I'd be free to drive my own car," I pointed out.

"Missouri state law says we HAVE to take the car back once we make you an offer," he said.

I haven't had time to research it, but it's difficult to imagine a Missouri legislator inventing a bill that would require a rental car to be returned when the insurance company makes an offer. Who would even THINK of a law like that?

It doesn't matter now. I've got a new (used) car and brand new car payments to make.

Let the starvation begin.

~Heidi Nieland is a member of the Southeast Missourian news staff.