On the Highway of Life, Priorities Can Change

The morning commute:

Too many cars.

Too little space.

Too much coffee.

You have these fantasies:

One involves a personal freeway.

One involves Power Ball lottery.

One involves a monster truck with huge wheels that enables you to ride up over the cars in front of you and continue driving on their crushed roofs until you reach your exit leaving a pathetic pile of . . . .

Anyway.

I’m cutting-in, cutting-off and cursing-out my way to work, when I happen upon an always-interesting slice of Interstate life--the traffic tiff.

Normally, when it comes to strangers’ spats, I tend to side with the cheaper vehicle. I do this because I drive an old pickup truck--and because I’m petty.

In the drama currently unfolding, however, my rooting interest is not as clear-cut as usual because the protagonists are a Saab and a Beamer.

While this does sort of constitute a win-win situation from my warped perspective, it also removes a certain amount of entertainment value from the rapidly escalating encounter.

I am so bummed by this unfortunate turn of events that I am seriously considering changing lanes. Then I notice the bumper sticker on the back of the Beamer:

“Grow Your Own Dope, Plant a Man.”

So now I have a favorite.

The Saab is being driven by an ordinary-looking guy sporting a white shirt, blue tie and the standard reddish-purple commuter’s complexion.

He has entered the oozing traffic from a left onramp and ended up side by side with the Beamer. As the two vehicles inch along, the merge lane is steadily narrowing, meaning someone is going to have an attack of maturity fairly soon.

Finally, the guy in the Saab decides discretion is the better part of swapping paint with the Beamer.

He blinks.

But he doesn’t let it go.

He allows the Beamer to get a few lengths ahead and then accelerates quickly up behind it with his horn blaring, slamming on his anti-lock brakes at the very last second.

The woman in the Beamer responds by affording him a lengthy, rotating view of her middle finger.

As one might imagine, this has anything but a calming effect.

The scene is repeated half a dozen times or so over the next mile:

Blare. Brake. Salutation.

Blare. Brake. Salutation.

The two main characters in this motoring morality play become so engrossed in their bout of temporary insanity that they are oblivious to everything else.

Neither notices when a six-wheel flatbed hauling a load of symbolism materializes beside them.

On the truck’s back are two cement coffin vaults, one concrete gray, one spray-painted gold. Linked and bound by chain, they quietly roll along side by side.

Who gets to go first doesn’t seem to be an issue.

*

Shea is a columnist at the Hartford Courant. To reach him write to Jim Shea, Hartford Courant, 285 Broad St., Hartford, CT 06115.