I
drive to work at about the same time along the same route every day and
as a result, I see the same cars. We hit the same traffic lights and
pick the same lanes like clockwork. It’s kind of dehumanizing in a way,
but such is the commuter life. To pass the time and keep myself from
crashing into a street light out of sheer boredom, I make up stories
about the cars and their drivers.
Here are those stories:
The
Prius driven by the man in a business shirt and tie. You’d think he’d
be a kind, ecofriendly soul, but he drives like a complete jackass. He
cuts people off and tailgates. So much rage. He used to be a hippie,
maybe a drummer or poet. Now he sells insurance and hates his life. His
car is his last clinging concession to his wild youth.
The
pickup truck driven by the man who has his high school tassel dangling
from the rear view window. He’s in his mid-30s, and graduating from high
school has been his greatest accomplishment so far. He still lives
with his parents, and when they die, he’ll have the place to himself and
he won’t have to turn down his stereo. Maybe he can have girls over,
too. He just won't know how to cook or do laundry, since his mom does it
for him, and always has.
The
sports van driven by a woman who’s got a license plate frame saying
“HAPPINESS IS BEING THE MOM OF TWINS” and a few “My child was student of
the month at Blah-Blah School for the Overly-Entitled.” Her vanity
plate also implies something as much. She is the kind of parent who
works her twin stories into every single conversation, regardless of the
subject, whether it be with friends, coworkers, or the person behind
her in line. Her entire existence is defined by her children's lives and
her parent smugness oozes from her car like exhaust.
Some
jacked-up economy car driven by a teenage white boy who plays gangsta
rap so loud that it rattles my windshield. He’s eighty credits behind in
high school, and every time an adult asks him what he plans to do after
graduation, he said he’s going to be a rap star, bigger than Eminem.
He’s never once been on stage, but he will be someday. I hate idling at a
light by him, and I pass him as quickly as I can, not only to get away
from that noise he blasts but also as some warped old lady vindication.
“Suck on that, Snoop-Dog,” I say as I blaze past him.
The
work truck full of Hispanic men with sun-weathered faces and cowboy
hats. The back of the truck is full of landscaping tools and bags of
dirt. Even though they work outside together all day, they’re still
laughing and talking, even at this early hour.
The
ancient Jeep Wagoneer driven by an obese man with a red face and
scraggly beard. He eats a donut quickly, slurping coffee in between big
bites. It is a miracle that both car and driver are still mobile. Both
their demises will be cataclysmic and sudden. The only question is which
one will go first.
The
red Hyundai driven by a young woman who jams to her tunes with such
verve that she’s almost rear ended me a few times. Her hair is stylish,
and she wears fashionable sunglasses and perfect manicure, but she does
not have car insurance. When she eventually DOES rear end me, her daddy
will pay me off to keep me from contacting the police or the DMV.
The
shiny black foreign sports car driven by an older blonde woman. She
doesn’t fit the neighborhood, which is stubbornly middle class. She
works in Calabasas or Los Angeles, at a job where the kind of car you
drive matters. Her car payments are more than her mortgage.
I’m
sure some of them have made up stories about me too. I’ve got a Subaru
with bumper stickers that reflect a childish fixation on pop culture and
my dogs. Yet, storytelling passes the time until we can all reach the
freeway onramp and disperse on our various ways. When summer passes,
and the new school year starts, I’ll have new commuters to observe and
wonder about.
