I believe in the drivers who cut me off in traffic. I believe in the tattooed twenty-somethings and the pierced human-pincushions in their flame-adorned, lifted, I’m-clearly-compensating-for-something type trucks; I believe in the minds behind the bedazzled “DADZGURL” plates and bumper-sticker-laden trunks. I believe in the impetuous drivers that duck and dodge through the lanes of the highway with no warning, no turn signal, and no acknowledgement to my speed or direction. I believe in the distracted soccer moms, the teenage texters, and the snowbirds.
Rush hour traffic had not been good to me. The 202 was congested to say the least; cars lined up for miles. These drivers had chosen to participate in an unofficial race to their destination of choice – to work, to home, to their finish line, wherever it may be. The lines crept by at an ineffectual pace, with few exceptions. Those drivers. Those drivers who rely on shortcuts through dangerously crunched spaces, continue on to snake their way through six lanes of highway traffic, thirty-eight miles over the speed limit, and then blow through the “No Turn on Red” intersection on the off-ramp. I’d spent nearly an hour as a contestant on this road and I’d had enough with the bobbing and weaving of cheating drivers, but Ms. “LUVME2” in the navy Toyota Corolla read “Test Me” on my bumper. She slid past me on impulse, nearly swapping her metallic blue for my tan-gold. My brain screamed pound signs, exclamation points, at symbols, and asterisks. I began to feel that, “DRIVINGHAZARD4LYFE” would be an appropriate license plate, should the DMV decide eighteen was a much more reasonable character limit than 7. I could foresee the angry gestures, potential middle-finger-salute and incriminating glare that would be given in the direction of my innocent vehicle. But when my line of vision crossed the hazard’s window, I made eye contact with an entirely different character than the one I’d imagined. She was young. Maybe mid-twenties. She’d been crying. The root-beer browns of her eyes were muddled with tears and dilated vessels. Her lips mouthed out, “I’m sorry”.
I became an injured runner. I had tripped on the quick pretenses formed by my thoughts. I had chosen accuse and blame this driver though I knew nothing of her circumstances, intentions, or finish line. She may have been headed to the hospital, to the morgue, straight towards devastating news or back into retrograde adversity. She was running the same race I was and this race wasn’t just a competition of who could get to work on time; it was much bigger. I now remember that I never know what an anonymous driver on the road has been through – what metaphorical puddles or engine failures Carpooling Carrie has faced today. And because of that, I believe in drivers. The good ones, the bad ones, the young ones, the old ones, the ones who let me in, and the ones who cut me off.