Bad Parade

October 17, 2016

Greetings from the parade,

I’m standing on the sidewalk, nice day, sun is shining.  I look up to see a guy riding toward me on his bike.  He has long grey hair, and a wild beard.  There are plastic grocery bags looped on the handlebars, filled with what looks like his clothes.  Given the dynamics, we have as complete a conversation as we can.

As he gets close enough to hear, he asks: “Run out of gas?” 

“No.” I say.

It was a curt answer, but there was actually some thought behind it. 

He rides by with a smug look on his face.  Like: ‘You shoulda got a bike like this one here.’

In my one word answer I wanted to express that I was not stranded on the side of the road due to my own negligence.  Why I cared what this guy thought about me is hard to explain.

The roadside assistance operator said it would be approximately 45 minutes before the tow truck arrived.  I hung up and waited on the sidewalk, and watched the dissolution of civil society. 

The flow is now constricted; I am a blockage in this artery.  I am a leading cause of mortality. 

Cars begin to accumulate around me.  No one is too upset, I get a few sympathetic glances, and then the line begins to stretch out.  At first I count cars.  Then, when the line fills both lanes further than I can see, I stop counting.  Whatever bond we had in the first moments, survivors,  all in this tangle together, vanishes.  It becomes all of the inconvenienced people versus me.

There had been a message on the dash of my car that said there was a malfunction in the charging system.  My car is always complaining about something; ABS, traction control, engine needs attention, politics, low tire pressure, but after a while I stopped paying attention.  This time, the complaint was followed by action.  The car stopped charging something and that made the engine stop working.  On a busy five lane street at lunch hour.

There was not a second warning.  The radio stopped working, the air conditioning stopped blowing, and then everything stopped.  And so we all stopped and formed a parade to celebrate.

For a little while I consider directing traffic. I can see where people are making tactical mistakes, getting blocked in, making it harder to pass.  This idea evaporates as a guy in a pickup truck goes by screaming something at me, which based on the adjectives I will assume was not helpful advice.  Well, if that’s how you’re going to be, I’m not going to direct traffic.

Forty-five minutes is a long time.  Now people are getting angry, honking at each other, fighting to cram into one lane as they reach my stranded car.  They roar past me, a little dramatic given almost everyone has to stop a hundred yards later at the next light.   I could actually walk up to them and point out this irony but I don’t. 

A woman slows down by my car and lowers her window : “Do you need any help?” she asks.  I do a ‘No thanks, I’m really sorry I’m actually not a bad person’ pantomime.  From this point on, I count how many people ask if I need help.  Four.  

In the distance I can see the tow truck, wedged in the parade, inching its way toward me.  The flashing lights are on, which seems appropriate for a parade, but in fact they are trying to get other drivers to let the truck pass so they can solve the problem.  Except no one wants to give up their place in the procession. 

And so I wait.  We all wait.  The cars that are unlucky enough to be lined up behind my car fight to get around into the open lane, cursing, honking their horns.  I look down at the pavement.  I don’t want to look at my phone.  I feel like I am being judged by the other drivers for my failure as a motorist, and I don’t want to look like I’m having too good of a time.

“This guy…in his suit and tie,..this guy probably texting his yuppie friends or sending emails to his broker…making me late for my anger management class…grrr.”

I’m in the back seat of the tow truck.  I know how people feel when the Coast Guard pulls them out of the water.  I want to invite these guys home for dinner, perhaps get a tow truck tattoo to commemorate our rescue.  They are politely oblivious to me.  They trade tow truck banter, the various pros and cons of car-hauling equipment, and there are several cell phone calls evidently from a wife and then a baby-momma, both asking for money.  When they drop me off I want to say “Let’s stay in touch.”  But I give them a tip instead.  They seem relieved.  In an indifferent way.

The clot dissolved and the patient was saved.  Minutes after my car was out of the way, civilization was restored.  The parade became an awkward group of people in cars who have to be honest about their road rage now that I was not the scapegoat. 

I’ll admit for a few days I was more sympathetic about other stranded motorists.  I wanted to offer help, or tell them I forgive them for disturbing the flow, perhaps causing me to be seven seconds late to my Starbucks appointment.  But it has not been a sustainable change and too soon I have resorted to yelling rhetorical questions through my windshield. 

Part of me would rather be the humiliated one on the side of the road than the angry one passing by. 

Hope this finds you yielding,

David

Copyright © 2016 David Smith