Open Writing

JUST CRUISING

Cars are an institution, a genuine phenomenon. I have 64,000 miles on my three year old car, so I know of what I speak. They bring the world to us, streaking by at 100 miles per hour, as we sit comfortably in our viewing machine, taking it all in. Think about this: by what other mode of transportation are we so free to go where we want, do what we please, when we please, how we please and as often as we please?

We are the lords and ladies of our domain while cruising the fast lane of life in our automobiles. I once heard someone describe the car as the great equalizer. A beat up old jalopy can pass a Rolls Royce on the freeway without losing their job. A smelly garbage truck can intimidate a Mercedes Benz with ease, and not get trashed!

Automobiles are a microcosm of life with a life of their own. All manner of experiences await us in our “barko-lounger on wheels”. We not only travel in them, we eat meals, run our offices from them, make love, sit and visit, haul our life around, communicate with family and friends, and colorfully communicate with the people driving around us. And yes, I’ll be driving less now because of the gas prices, but my car is one of those with the highest ratings for low emissions and great gas mileage. I do have a conscience!

I just love driving around rural America. Where else can you see so many unheralded wonders of the universe, like giant cement dinosaurs (so that’s what really happened to them), the heads of rich, white politicians carved into the sacred mountains of stolen Indian land, an entire building made out of corn cobs, and a statue of Paul Bunyon whose head turns and talks to little kids. Then there are the yards filled with giant rusted ship anchors, ceramic statues, plastic flamingos and flowers, carved wooden animals and twirling wind catchers. There’s more!

Do the people who speed in the slow lane on the freeway get fewer tickets?

THE STATE PATROL

In spite of my smart-aleck wit, I am a great fan and supporter of uniformed police officers. They lay down their lives for us each day, some quite literally. It’s often a thankless and always a dangerous job. That said, I do have something to say about one branch of these dedicated men and women. Why do they have signs on the freeway telling us where the state patrol offices are?

STATE PATROL
NEXT EXIT 1 MILE

Are we supposed to stop by and have coffee and doughnuts with them? Or do I simply poke my head through the front door and thank them, “Hi kids, just wanted to thank you for all that crayola work you left on the back window of my car last week when I ran out of gas.” Excuse me, but isn’t that called graffiti?

The first time I saw this fluorescent orange, cryptic writing on the back window of a car I thought it indicated the number of cars the state patrol had scribbled on that week, as in the numbers 1023 written on one window. My comment was something to the effect of “That’s certainly a lot of cars to be breaking down on the freeway in one week.” My child very patiently and quietly pointed out to me, “That’s the DATE the state patrol stopped and inspected the empty car, mom.” . . . . . . Oh.

Why is it that when you’re stranded on the side of the road, 500 miles from one of their freeway signs, you never see a state patrol car? Or they whiz by you on their way to save someone else, like the time I broke down on the freeway. The first two troopers drove past and waved at me as if saying, “Hi there, I see you, but I’m not stopping.” I waved back and screamed through clenched teeth and a forced smile, “Hi there, I know where your office is buddy, AND I”M KEEPING THE DOUGHNUTS!”

And there’s usually a couple hundred or so state patrol cars by the exits where their office is. I always pray my car will break down close to one of these exits. I’ve decided that I’m going to start carrying a sandwich board sign in the trunk of my car to put up on the side of the freeway that reads,

STRANDED MOTORIST
1 MILE