Through the Looking Glass: 45. Traffic

Sunday, December 16, 2012

45. Traffic

No matter where I drive I find myself subject to the inconsiderate actions of other automobile owners. A single incident is not so bad but of late it seems that a performance enhanced photocopier has spewed an obscene number of these self centered individuals onto my roadways. The fact that I am willing to share my roads with them seems to have little or no effect on their willingness to accommodate me as I make my way to where ever.

The hyperactive snail is perhaps the most inconsiderate driver that inhabits the pavement. This individual generally pulls out so shortly in front of me, causing my foot to hit the brake and my heart to leap into my throat. Anger rises when I check my rear view mirror and note that the nearest traffic is at least a kilometre behind me. The snail then begins to drop to a steady speed at least twenty kilometres per hour under the posted limit. It is all I can manage not to give him a 'gentle' bump from behind...just to remind him that he is using my road.

A close relation is the 'mucker'. This species is most active after a heavy rain or when the slush of melting snow reaches the axle of my vehicle. Driving habits include pulling in front of me with such vigor as to ensure that an opaque layer of muck immediately covers my windshield. By the time I have slowed down, turned on the wipers, sprayed the washer fluid and moved three blocks down the road, the mucker has moved in front of someone else to repeat the process. These individuals are often found hanging around carwashs and have been known to stalk sparkling clean vehicles.

Rubbernecks and illiterate drivers are another sub-species that cause their own measure of tension and stress. The former seem to draw energy from ogling bent body panels and broken glass at a speed that is only a hair faster than reverse. Although I have offered to provide these individuals with the same opportunity in the privacy and safety of their own driveways I haven't, as yet, been taken up on my offer. Illiterates include those that drive at the posted playground speed whether it is an hour before the zone starts or midnight during a blizzard. I suppose that driving behind these reading challenged drivers in a playground zone is preferable to being in front of them as I pull up to a stop sign.

Another semi-human driver type is the 'Mario Andretti' Wanna Be. Often victims of excessive auto racing movies are under the delusion that they are participants in a real life "Fast and Furious". Screaming past me at an obscene speed they are often responsible a rapid rise in my heart rate and an occasional change of underwear. Weaving in and out of traffic I am certain that they have been placed on retainer by pharmaceutical companies manufacturing heart medicines.

The parking game is another pastime I could do without. I have come to believe that a parking spot is simply a figment of some twisted writer's imagination. I am convinced that the vehicles I see never leave their spot. If I finally find a parking spot I am tempted to join the general population and never move my vehicle again. I do possess irrefutable proof that parking spots ( like UFOs) actually exist... but my publisher's suspicion around doctored photos makes sharing it impossible. I swear that the truth is out there.

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Introduction

Having moved at least twenty-five times in fifteen years has opened a world of learning to me. In six decades, an education ranging from the coldness of large cities to the isolation of remote rural locations to the busybody gossip of small towns and the wonder of the prairie and it's ocean of grass have all left their impressions on me.

Recently I relocated to a small city in British Columbia. It touted itself as a historical, cultural, educational and, over-all wonderful, place to live. Once I was past the trees and the rocks, the heights and the hills, the water and the wind, I calmed down and was ready to look at the people I was sharing that space with.

Every location I have ever squatted has had it's share of characters. Players in the cities along with the wide range of tinfoil hat wearers and baggy pants skaters were a given. Pop up strangers at odd hours surprised me with their appearance in the middle of nowhere. Rumours of my serial killer past from neighbours I had never met never swayed me. The wonder of gazing on the effects of wind on the grass ocean interrupted by a landowner enquiring why I was leaning on his fence was oft forgiven.

In this new locale a variety of characters as I had experienced elsewhere was a given. The density and variety of them however gave me more surprise than I would have expected.

I had heard comments about this place being a time warp to the sixties. However I only saw few that , by their appearance, I could say lived through the sixties. What apparitions appeared were younger and more colourful than I remember from that vague decade.

Purple haired strong armed accordionists, heavy head shaved violinists clutching tiny instruments, winter coated scarf wrapped individuals in shorts and oddly calm people with large coffees wandered the streets.

They wandered in and out of new age crystal shops, expressed opinions on local radio, bought nothing but organic food. They played jazz on squeeze boxes, made strings and wood sing in ways not intended, talked to themselves as they tightened their scarves and became more serene with each sip of coffee.

Characters here are more concentrated than in any other locale I have ever lived. It is a point of interest as well as point of concern.

It remains to be seen whether I will be mugged with organic carrots, side swiped by hooligan mountain bikers, be harangued with advice on dressing warmly or kept awake nights by jazzy sounds from an errant squeeze box. Whatever the outcome I am certain I could find it in no other place on earth to explore these particular uncertainties.

Until I am transplanted again, I extend every new-ager and boarder, every subculture economist and spiritualist, every would-be and wanna-be my deep thanks for extending me the opportunity of educating myself one measure more.