A Little Driving...

    Earlier today, I was out driving my way through the mess of Milwaukee afternoon traffic when I encountered a somewhat usual, garden-variety traffic jam.  I'm pretty sure it had something to do with the fact that Dick Cheney was released from his cave and allowed to come to Milwaukee for a one-thousand dollar a plate luncheon, and this, in turn, dragged just about every Cheney-ac with a grand to burn out of the woodwork and onto the expressway. 

    Anyway, as I drove, I found myself slowing and stopping as I became but one single car in a crawling mass of many.  Behind me, a bus grunted, and in front of me a sky-blue Buick with two gray heads inside lit up its brake-lights with a chaotic series of arrhythmic flashes independent of the cacaphony of the huddled mass of metal around us.

    Sometimes, when I am stuck in these situations, I tend to let my mind wander over no end of odd little things.  Sometimes I think about where it is I am going (In this case, I was heading to the hospital to get a 3-hour infusion of Remicade); sometimes I think about where I've been (a handful of feet from the hotel where The Dick was speaking); sometimes I write haiku, and sometimes I just try to imagine the conversations happening all around me. 

     Today, I chose the latter and I thought about the two gray heads in the Buick ahead of me.  I imagined the possible conversation this delightful, brake-happy couple was having, and I figure, it went something like this:

    "Damn it!"  The old man says sternly.  "Damn it, damn it, damn IT!"

    "What is it honey?" The old woman asks. 

    "I knew we shouldn't have gone to that Arab gas station," the old man barks. 

    "Why?" the old woman asks flatly. 

    "The damn car's ticking," he responds.  "It's ticking, and for all I know, that damn Al Qaeda planted a bomb in the engine while you were in there using the bathroom, and I was buying Slim Jims."

    "It's not Al Qaeda, dear," the old woman says.  

    "Fine," the old man snaps.  "It's that damn Hezbolla again." 

    "No," the woman says.  "It's not them.  And, it's not a bomb."

    "What do you know?" the old man says.  "Seriously.  You don't know anything."

    "Well, dear," the woman says calmly. "I may not know a whole lot about terrorists and bombs, but I do know that you've just spent the last twenty miles driving with your turn signal on." 

 

-DP