Commuter Stories

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.