A harmless, little, rusted-out, horse trailer is creeping in the middle. The light is red, he drifts toward my channel. The bastard’s asleep in his ‘67 Ford Pickup so I blast the horn, he jerks and stops. We go against the heavy resistance of the big hill heading up to the hospital. At the top, another red, and here comes that Ford. That dog is hunting rabbit. I have switched channels and whisper to God as I discover he has also switched channels when the trailer goes by, storming through the red at perhaps 60. He is big drunk. No other conclusion is possible. I’ve seen it. No use calling the cops because I could not know where he is. I whisper to God and ask that the Ford driver get whatever he might deserve and no one suffers for his Saturday morning drive.
Going to lunch, slightly peaceful, slightly rushed, I roll up behind a ‘70’s Chevy pickup, rusted out, with no original paint left, camper top on the bed swamped with chaotically piled junk ready to come out the back and land on me. He floors it on the green, his cargo rolls around. I cruise safely but do not whisper.
Late, after all of the day’s activity, double left turn lane, I’m on the right, and a late-model, white Chevy, twice as high as I am, with a special tire package, comes at me hard. He does not like me being on the right and he works hard and with intention to run me off the road. I stop short of tragedy and carefully get in behind him, way behind him. He is vigorously waving, perhaps being a smart ass, but I am whispering to God again.
“Where do all of these people come from, and why…Why, why, why?” I ask. Quickly, I realize my fault and I thank God or something, some power, that I am unreasonably still alive. Some power gave me a shield today and I am sitting there worried about the rain, which sure seems a bit too heavy.