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The Cynical Guy Gets Behind the Wheel

Driving is a lot like life: we simply want to enjoy the journey from Point A to Point B, but all the forces of man and nature conspire to frazzle us along the way. What should be a pleasant and salubrious undertaking becomes an exercise in frustration, expletives, raised middle fingers and the gritting of teeth. I'm convinced it's no accident that heart disease zoomed to the top of the mortality charts around the time we traded in our horses for the first primitive tin lizzies. Driving a car can be a perilous undertaking, and not just for the bones that might be crumpled en route. We strive, we're blocked, we fume, we miss a sign, we run late, we charge ahead, we're cut off, we hurl violent oaths upon our transgressors. All this agitation can't be good for our overtaxed arteries, already half-stuffed with the mounting debris of cheeseburgers past. But it's not simply the matter of auto-induced mortality that makes driving such a fascinating exercise for this cynic. What I've discovered, in my thirty-plus years behind the wheel, is that the vexations of driving make first-rate metaphors for the vexations of life. Come with me now while I hop into the car and point out the lessons of the road from behind the wheel.

We're approaching a traffic light that has just turned red. It's bad enough that red lights exist as symbols of our thwarted goals. A red light reminds us that we didn't make the wrestling team, got rejected by Cornell, failed to get tapped for the "fast track" at work. But there's more to it than that. On any given stretch of urban or suburban road, you're likely to encounter one of those red-light sequences that seem to be choreographed by the devil himself. You'll soon discover what I mean. All right, they've given us the green and we're on our way. The next light looms ahead, already visible as a bright green dot. But what manner of perversity is this? Just as we make our approach, THIS light turns red. We sit and wait; my hand is drumming on the dashboard; you can tell I'm not amused. OK, green light again -- we're rolling toward the next intersection up ahead; I accelerate just a bit so we won't get snagged this time. Too late! They've anticipated our approach; red light AGAIN. It makes you suspect that some happy drivers must be getting all the green lights, while others -- US, for example -- get stuck with the reds, again and again, and yet again. Sort of like life, isn't it? You can bet that Tom Cruise doesn't see many red lights while he's tooling down the road at Malibu.

All right, let me take you onto the turnpike now. We stop at the toll booth first, just as we have to pay our dues in life. But it's not as simple as that; it never is. We can choose from a dozen toll booths, some of them for folks who carry the exact change, others for those who don't, and still others for the ones who were clever enough to buy an E-Z Pass in advance. I'm not much of an advance planner, but I WAS astute enough to bring the exact change; we should be through these toll booths in half a minute -- or so you'd think. Part of the game of turnpike driving is choosing the booth with the fastest line, so let's try this short line over toward the right. Seems obvious, doesn't it? We scanned the various lanes and picked out the one with the fewest cars. A no-brainer, right? Then why are we sitting here, motionless as a Galapagos tortoise with a hypothyroid disorder, while the cars in the LONGER lines are easing past us, one by one? There's that red Jeep Cherokee we passed on the way in; there's the gray Honda Civic behind it; there go three more cars we don't even recognize. They're already through the booth, home free, while our own toll collector chats with a driver and moves with the alacrity of a three-toed sloth. At the toll booth as in life, we're forced to make choices... and they're usually the wrong ones, even when we've thought them out in detail. We want a solid college education, so we decide to major in medieval history. We buy a highly touted stock and it immediately tanks like the Titanic. We take a job offer for more money and find ourselves marooned in professional limbo for the next 14 years. And here's the topper: if we dare to change our course -- to move from our agonizingly slow toll booth line to one that looks faster -- the new one is GUARANTEED to become the slowest. You're looking at a proven fact of life.

We've finally escaped from the toll booth now, and we're cruising down the turnpike at 10 mph over the speed limit -- fast enough, you'd think, to get us to our destination in optimal time, yet not so fast that we'd be risking a close encounter with the state patrolmen. We're passing the slower traffic on the right; we're speeding along at a satisfying clip. But that's not good enough for the guy in the black sports car behind us; he's blinking his headlights, weaving from side to side, and obviously itching to leave us in the dust. You should know this about me: I hate tailgaters. I hate them even more when I'm already driving 10 mph over the speed limit. I'll do anything to thwart their arrogant and nefarious roadlust, sometimes pulling even with the car in the right lane and keeping pace like two synchronized swimmers at the Olympics. This maddens tailgaters, as it should; they routinely dismiss us law-abiders as clueless chumps, and that maddens ME. But today I decide to pull over and give the bad guy a break. He immediately shoots ahead, probably soaring to speeds of 90 mph and beyond; and I'm glad to be rid of him. We ease back into the fast lane and I resume traveling at a relatively sensible 10 mph over the speed limit. Within a minute, of course, we see the flashing lights of a state patrol car gaining on us, and we pull over to accept our punishment. Apparently I was traveling at 76 mph, 11 miles over the limit. Meanwhile the sports-car demon is already in the next state, as free and lawless as ever. Moral of the story: it's the conscientious ones who pay the price.

On the road again, we find our exit and head into the hinterland. We're looking for the town of Dreamville, clearly marked by a sign at the first intersection. We turn right as directed, then follow the road to the next intersection, where another sign for Dreamville tells us to turn left. A mile down the road we come to a fork; there's no sign for Dreamville. We have to make a choice before we drive up the middle and find ourselves in the bushes, so we veer to the right. Will we ever find Dreamville? Who knows? The fact that we're driving on gravel doesn't make it look too encouraging. But that's to be expected. The road, like life, seduces us with certainties and enticements at first. Helpful signs point the way, with the exact distances measured to reassure us that we're on the right track. We're confident that we simply have to follow directions. Then, just when we need a sign at the next fork in the road... NOTHING. No guidance. No reassurance. Suddenly we're allowed to wander into the wilderness, lose ourselves, find our own way out. Sounds all too familiar, doesn't it? But I think driving has one advantage over real life: you can always stop at a gas station to ask for directions.

© 2000 by Bridget Petrella Media Relations. "Some Cynical Guy" appears here by permission of the publisher. 

Profile of a Cynic...

Bayan, who claims to be a "kinder, gentler cynic," currently lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania. His weekly column, "Some Cynical Guy," is published and syndicated by Upbeat Online. 

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