The following story is a little preview from the planned essays for Beauty... . ENJOY!
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| Public Domain photo by Alex Grichenko |
Hurry Up and Wait
By Judith Cullen
© 2015
I’ll never forget that morning. It was a typically overcast, drizzly Pacific Northwest weekday anonymously tucked somewhere
between November and March. It was the
kind of morning that would typically blend into the sameness of other winter,
weekday morning commutes. The sky hung in a misty, moist silver blur as I
pulled out onto the main drag by my house, embarking once more on the 30 mile
trek to a job in the state capitol.
When I first started driving this particular commute nearly
two years ago, I remembered every turn, every leaf and branch, every bridge and
stream of the very scenic journey. At
the time my amazement was such that I said a loud to myself, “I wonder if I
will ever get tired of this lovely drive?” The drive was, and is, filled with
loveliness to fill any scenic sensibility: vibrant mixes of green, leafy trees;
the different glimpses of sky and mountains; the far off ripple and sparkle of Puget Sound waters.
The answer turned out to be “yes, sort of.” I’ve long since stopped noticing every scenic
bit and bob along the way. I still enjoy
the views and the changes of season, but not as attentively as I once did. It was not going to be scenery, this
particular morning, which made this trip stand out.
As I pulled up to the first light, signaling to move into
the left turn lane that would lead me down another main thoroughfare to the
interstate, a gleam of silver flashed in front of me as a late model Accord cut
across my path to take the front position in left hand turn lane.
I flinched, but only a little. My morning “cuppa” had not yet taken hold. With
an hour or so to go until my target heart rate for the day was reached, I was
still fairly serene. I checked my
speed. I hadn’t been dawdling. “Well,
maybe they are running late and are just in a hurry” I thought, trying to be
gracious.
The light turned green and the Accord sped around the corner
and accelerated for unknown points south.
I followed at a much more conservative pace and let my car assume a
leisurely speed just one mph above the limit.
I know these lights pretty well.
Sure enough, when I got to the next light, there was the
Accord. If this were a 1950s greaser
flick, it would have been aggressively gunning its engine, impatient to be
speeding off. We don’t gun our engines
like that in the post-fuel-injection era. Where was the crucial destination for
this car and driver that it should be so bristling with NASCAR energy this
early on weekday?
This light turned green and the Accord was off in a
completely imaginary puff of smoke, speeding down the street. I ambled after at the speed limit, secure in
the knowledge that what seemed like a pattern, most likely would become
pattern. Sure enough, I was not disappointed. There was the Accord waiting at
the next light, fairly vibrating with impatience while the rest of the world
continued at its blithe, highly regulated pace.
Green light: zooooom, the Accord was off again and waiting
for me, metaphorically tapping its tires, as I rolled up to the subsequent
light. We were getting closer to the freeway, and already I could envision the
Accord’s rear bumper cheekily receding into the distance, weaving around lesser
beings that had the ill-fortune to get in its way. One more tag-and-go at a stop
light, and much to my surprise the Accord turned left! Freeway entry was not in its cards,
apparently. It had left us plodding
mortals on throughway and turned into the feeder lanes of one of those mega-McDonalds. You know the kind: the ones with the warren
of drive-thru lines all feeding inexorably to a cash register and the friendly,
cheerfully thrust white bag filled with predictable, if not completely
healthful, foodstuffs.
As I passed the McDonalds, I noted that both the circuitous
drive-thru lines were backed up four and five cars deep before the order
panels. There was the silver Accord,
pulling up just in time to cool its heels and wait. No wonder it was
rushing! Another critical moment lost
and they would have run out of Egg MacMuffins! What if there had been no hot,
fresh coffee left?! The horror! The inhumanity!
Some mornings you just know that Karma is hard at work, and
that she never forgets!
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