Friends,
There are people who live in this world who seem to embrace the rut their lives have fallen into. That’s not surprising. What makes my head spin around is when those people become angry that something out of the ordinary has occurred within their scope. I was heading home this afternoon and had to perform a marginally flashy lane change to get around one of these people to hit the waning green arrow to make the left turn up the hill.
This garnered me the number three spot at the next light with the time to look in my mirror to see the passing victim plod through the intersection against what was surely a red light by this time. He ends up sitting in the other lane about three more cars back and leans out his window, “Hey! What’s your f[***]in’ hurry!” I turn around and shout back, “I gotta get out of here!” This was true.
True, but not complete. Ever since my friend Clare implanted the notion that the Valley is a vortex, sucking alumni back in if they’re not careful those decades ago, I haven’t been comfortable spending any more time than absolutely necessary. It has become a creepy place that must be avoided, or at least visited only briefly with a clear exit strategy. At the end of my workday, I gotta get out of there and I do with all the muster that the teensy tiny racecar can bring to the fight. My week-daily mania also extends to the people who would stand in the way of my goal of scratching and clawing my way out of their sea level hell.
Mr. Shouty was disturbed that I made my way around him. Around the lumbering chicane he was piloting without aim, heading back to what must be a just barely adequate home to wait out yet another few hours in his poorly drawn life. He was an em dash in the sentence of my day, but his outrage made me stop and consider my own motivation. Why had I considered him the embodiment of all that’s wrong with that dusty waiting room called the Coachella Valley? Why?
My real answer to him should have been, “what’s the hold up?” This beautiful life and the lovely things in it, particularly at the higher elevations where I reside, aren’t going to last. That’s obvious, but I’m also concerned that today’s angry man doesn’t approach this brief time afforded us with more urgency, or at least understand why somebody else might. His finger wag seems to be a surrender. He doesn’t have much of a destination and isn’t too fond of anybody who might have one of their own.
Of course I’m reading much more into this than the plain facts present, but I don’t care all that much. What I do know for sure is that the interchange was helpful in clarifying where I stand. Gasoline up here in my little burg is up to $4.19 a gallon for regular, which is an outrage, and slowing down for fuel economy’s sake seems like a good idea, but there’s no place like home. And there’s no place like this home.
Your pal,
– bob