Oh the drivers in my rearview mirror. The chagrin, the anguish, the utter astonishment. The bewildered palms in the air, the hunched shoulders, the open mouths and contorting heads. Because when you drive 40 on a curvy suburban boulevard and the speed limit is 45 or 50 and the other drivers want to go 60 or more, the performances I see in my rearview mirror are truly histrionic. It is quite pathetic. But not in a good way.
Imagine he’s sitting in your passenger seat. In his shortsleeved dress shirt and tie. Hair receding in front. With his clipboard on his lap, clicking his ballpoint pen open and closed, open and closed.
Mr. Conklin of the DMV. The guy who fails almost everyone on their first try. Imagine he’s there with you now. When you’re heading to work, hoping against odds to hit only green lights between your house and the freeway. When you’re trying to find a parking space near the gym so you can get in and out and still make it home before your wife. When you’re late to your gynecologist appointment and you feel like cutting off the stupid guy in the Tesla that just cut you off. Mr. Conklin’s there, with you. Or he should be.
Because you’re probably like most drivers. You’re stressed out because of traffic, because of life, you’re jaded because all the other drivers are maniacs so why shouldn’t you be, and you’re doing things as a driver that you know, in your heart of hearts, are wrong, mean, selfish, and downright homocidal. That’s why Mr. Conklin should be there. In your head. As if he were sitting smugly in that passenger seat and watching every little thing you do going from point A to point B. Because if you can’t follow the simple rules of the road and be as good a person behind the wheel as you are in front of it, then you better start taking Mr. Conklin with you wherever you go. Because if you think he’s a tough examiner, wait’ll you see how his boss, Ms. Fate, scores cocky little applicants like you.
Last night was a good night. Driving home on the freeway, I only had eight or ten near-death experiences with homicidal maniacs who wanted to run me and my 60 mph off the road. Sometimes it’s twice that number.
We need to get the lunatics off the road. Otherwise, I’m either buying a used army tank to get around L.A., or I’m joining a monastery. Things have gotten that bad.
[picture: famous French monastery]
All this time I’ve been living in California I’ve been doing things wrong, I guess. When there’s a speed bump on a residential street I’ve been slowing down and gently rolling over the bump, which I thought was better for your back, your car, and any small kids that might run out into the street. But that’s wrong I guess. Because today when I did that the pickup truck behind me honked. He honked again when I stopped at the stop sign at the corner. In my mirror I could see him making faces, gesturing and getting agitated. He was following very close. He turned left at the stop sign.
Apparently all these years I’ve been misinterpreting the term “speed bump”. I didn’t realize that it was comprised of verbs and was written in the imperative mood. I didn’t realize that it meant that we should speed up as soon as we come to one, and careen over it like we’re going offroad in our Chevy Silverado.
Chuck Redman 