Ah, rush hour. Cars pack together in anticipation of going home to rest and relaxation. It’s Friday, and traffic is slow. Everyone’s a bit edgy. As you pull up next to me in the adjacent lane, stereo thumping in ways that shouldn’t be legal, I recall a dream I once had. Actually, it’s not so much a dream as a recurring daydream. At any rate, it brings a smile to my face. And here’s why:
In this daydream, you are interchangeable with any obnoxiously loud vehicle that happens to be vexing me at the moment. It just so happens that I’m placing you in the starring role right now. As I look over at your dope street racer with its Bondo-slathered fenders and doors, I see you “rocking out” or “getting down” in an excitedly animated fashion. You are obviously “feeling the funky fresh flow” of whatever music you are listening to. I wouldn’t know what it is, naturally. All I can hear are the cascading sheets of boom hitting the side of my car. Seriously, I can feel my brain bumping around inside my skull. For all I know, it could be the sound of a thousand bulls Riverdancing. It really doesn’t matter. As you bounce to the beat in your bucket seat, I imagine what you may be thinking: You’re awesome. Your music is awesome. And you’ll be darned if everyone within two city blocks isn’t going to experience that awesomeness right along with you. People are watching—looking to the source of the blissful waves of concussion-inducing bass you are generously doling out. Such philanthropy.
Oh, this is your favorite part of the song. You turn it up. Your captive gridlocked audience will surely be indebted to you for such fine stoplight entertainment, you think. Holy cow, I think my airbags are going to deploy. I can actually see your window glass bow outward with each kick of the bass drum. You rock.
And then… it happens. The inevitable result of your giving attitude. Every nut—every bolt, screw, grommet, and scrap of glue holding together your prized street racer buzz loose. Screws strip, adhesive snaps away. And there, in the middle of the road, your car falls apart like Jake and Elwood’s rusted-out cop car. Except you aren’t on a mission from God—despite what you may think. Doors, fenders and bumpers all hit the ground. Everyone within earshot claps. As you pick up your things and walk sheepishly to the nearest bus stop, the crowd points and gives you the ol’ Nelson Muntz “ha-ha!” treatment.
It’s classic. It’s perfect. It’s all in my mind.
The Driver Next to You With the Face Twisted in Anguish.