I live in a large city, and I drive a 45-minute commute to work. I happen to be one of the few who commute out of the city to work while the rest of the world commutes into the city. On the two-lane road I drive, the left side is a solid line of traffic during my commute, while my side is usually clear to Timbuktu.
On most days, the commute is uneventful, but it’s inevitable at some time that I end up behind drivers who aggravate me. Through the years, I’ve developed a sort of perverse relationship with these strangers to the point I thought they should have names. I ought to know the names of people who yank my chain without even knowing it, so I invented names for them to suit their driving abilities and/or appearance. I remember during one commute in late Fall, three of these people decided to annoy me, and I thought it would make a good blat.
The first leg of my commute is consistently without incident because it’s a three-lane highway. I can pass any disagreeable drivers. But I need to exit the highway onto the two-lane road with miles of headlights in the left lane. Just as I thank the commuter god that I am not commuting to the city, I spot a car ahead of me that I seem to be gaining on rather fast. The speed limit is 55, and I’m going 60, but I slow down because it may be an accident.
I catch up with the car, and…no accident. It is a cold dark morning. All the headlights in the opposite lane make a woman’s silhouette visible in the driver seat of the car ahead of me, and when she turns her head, I see her hair is in bun. There is nobody in front of her to slow her down, and her hazard lights are not flashing, but my speedometer barely touches 40 mph. I groan as I realize Dorothea pilots the car I follow.
Dorothea is what I call all old lady drivers, and the only thing worse than old lady drivers are old man drivers, who I call Miles because they turn a distance of yards into miles. But this is not Miles; it is definitely Dorothea, and I’m trapped behind her.
I try to exercise the most patience with old drivers because I know I’ll be a Miles before I know it, and I’ll want others to extend me every bit of slack they can, but geezo. Ooone mile…oh man. Twooooo miles…oh, Lord help me. Threeeeeeeeee miles. I stare at the back of her car wishing I possessed some sort of telekinesis to goose that buggy. It is a VW bug with a daisy pegged to the car antenna. The gap around the trunk lid curves placidly like a content smile just beneath a license plate that says, “SLWDWN”. Fo – o – o – o – o – our miles…I. Am. Going. To. Have. An. Aneurysm. I am. Fi – i – i – i – i – i – i – i – i – IVE!
People do all sorts of things to control their anger. Some count to ten. Some eat. Some hit something. I employ various tricks, but in this case, I decide to make up a rhyme. So, with a white knuckled grip on my steering wheel, I sort of sing these words in a very low voice through half-clenched teeth:
Oh, sweet Dorothea,
Why do you torture mea?
You give me diarrhea.
In my rear view mirror, I wanna see ya,
My sweet Dorothea.
It acts as an incantation, for as soon as the last syllable leaves my mouth, she drives even SLOWER! I see the silhouette of her head swiveling from the road to the side of the road and back, and I deduce that she’s trying to read street signs. Great! She has no clue where she is or where she’s going. She’s probably half blind with a penetrating case of Alzheimer’s. What idiot left car keys within her reach? I am thinking of driving up her back, backing over her, and doing it again.
Then she STOPS, and I see her head bobbing from side to side as if she's trying to decipher the street sign she's stopped in front of. Just as I'm ready to thumb her eyes from the sockets and hold them up to the sign to help her see better (I'm helpful that way), she FINALLY decides the sign is indeed written in English, and starts to turn. I say “starts” because her turn has stations much like the cross, but unfortunately, without the crucifixion.
As she enters the last station of her turn, I swerve a bit to get around her, and I see this was not Dorothea, but Hulga, a young female who drives slow. She looks to be in her twenties, and it exasperates me even more. I call young males who drive slow “Dudley”.
But now, all is bliss. Not a car in sight, and I zip along at my usual speed for about seven miles.
But then...brake lights in the distance. I see that the car wants to turn left, and I hope for a break in the commuter traffic so it can turn before I get there, but no...I roll up to a stop behind a beat-up truck with enough trash in its bed to make Fred Sanford salivate.
Jethro has stopped me cold.
Jethro is what I call annoying drivers who look like hicks or of sub-par intelligence. Ellie May is the female counterpart.
I am seething. I feel the traffic gods have it in for me this morning throwing Jethro at me after enduring Hulga. My exasperation reaches critical mass when he disregards a few prime opportunities to turn, and I start to talk with a hick accent, giving voice to the thoughts I think must run through this hayseed's head:
Walp, doggone if I ain't stuk. Cain't turn less'n it's clair from here to Dogpatch. Might scratch the truk. This is gonna make me late to pick up my gubmint check for not growin' soybeans, and the wife ain't gonna take kindly to that. She's fixed on that new gold tooth cuz it'll give her an even ten and some glamour. I tried to tell her it's too much money, but she IS my sister, and you gotta do right by yore fambly.
FINALLY...Jethro decides it's safe to ease his “dee-lux see-dan” in front of oncoming traffic, a real risk considering the car was hurtling towards us from about ten blocks away. He manages to eke past it though.
All was right again, and I speed up and enjoy unhindered progress for about another five miles.
Then Percy shows up.
I don't know it's him at first. There are no brake lights this time, just a car in front of me, but I gain on him pretty quickly, then slow to precisely 54 mph...no faster, no slower. I'm a little perturbed, but after Hulga and Jethro, this is Indianapolis, so I can handle it. But then something happens to confirm Percy's identity: it snows. It was the very first snow that year. I think it must've been all of a dozen flakes, and then it stopped.
But the driver in front of me sees those flakes and slows to about 40, and cranes his neck to get a look at the blizzard and be careful not to slide off the snowy, ice-caked road. Oh yeah, that's Percy - an overly-cautious male driver. Females I call Mildred.
I am trapped behind Percy for six miles until I reach my turn for work, but not before I've exhausted my arsenal of insult and denigration onto him.
As I turn to drive the final miles to work, the Spirit spoke to me, and the conversation went something like this:
“Mind telling Me what you're doing?”
“What...I'm driving to work. What does it look like I'm doing?”
“It looks like you're hurling hatred at My children.”
A pang of guilt. “I...well, I didn't really mean any of that stuff. I just...I'm...did You see how they were driving? They'd make Mother Theresa want to slit her wrists. I'm only human.”
“I've called you to be My son, and My sons don't behave so disgracefully.”
“I'm...I'm sorry. I just...I guess I let the old man get the best of me there. I'm sorry. Please remind me next time. I'm sorry to say, but this is a pretty powerful weakness for me. You'll have to help me....a lot.”
“I forgive you. Now go, and sin no more.”
And that was that. I wish I could say I've been completely cured of my road rage, but I can say it's been mitigated largely by my God Who cares for me and slowly shapes my soul to mirror Christ's. I praise Him for His goodness and kindness to me...and His patience.