Freddy is a driver in between extremes, so he may seem fairly normal to the average observer. There might be the spaced-out driver, barely paying attention, perhaps talking on the cell, rocking crazily to a radio that is far too loud to hear a siren, or you might regard the other extreme, where from 50 feet you can actually see the bright whitening of the knuckles and you could measure to the millimeter and discover that the driver’s hands are perfectly at 10 and 2 (even though every good driver knows that hands need to be at 9 and 3 if one is going to be truly ready for a terribly violent shift in traffic seemingly destined to lead to total decimation of vehicles and people).
The cars are birds in formation. Freddy is feeling a part of the formation. The cars are disgusted with him. He doesn’t know the present, but he knows he is despised the way it is sung in Handel’s music, “HE WAS DE SPIIIIIIIIIIIIZ Z AID.”. He only knows that all of the birds have injured wings. Their beaks are ready to attack.
When Freddy is mowing the lawn, the hawks get pissed and they take aim at his head. He’s oblivious while it’s happening but he contemplates this aspect of the world carefully right now as he ducks slightly in his car seat, trying to be ready for the attacking beaks. His hats can’t be the trigger point as he wears different colors and some barely colorful at all such as the navy blue one with small white lettering softly bellowing Ford Racing. The birds are loud in their complaints, but of course, Freddy has maximized the volume on the MP3 player in order to strain to overwhelm the dull death bells of the Sears lawn mower which doesn’t get good mileage and seems to choke up on the taller grass but still works and who buys new lawn mowers until the old one completely breaks down into pieces (Surely the insane ones do, the insane ones go new before old is gone)?
Freddy wants to hold a wounded bird in his two hands cupped in a loving way, but he’s always fearful regardless of the condition of the bird, and he desperately wants to murder any bird daring to act as if it is heading in to peck his brain out and drink the fountain of blood. Sometimes he holds a shovel loosely in his right hand while manhandling the mower in his left, ready for the dive, ready to surprise the bird with a Hank Aaron shovel or perhaps John McEnroe overhead shovel.
Currently, he thinks how much the naturalists would despise him and he tries to vocalize the fact that he is not nearly as bad as they think, but this is always his defense, his standard play, judges getting terribly fatigued with his awful, foolish declarations of being good enough. Freddy thinks through his past and wonders whether anyone in the world is more ruinously situated as being consistently not good enough. It’s these inner attacks that the doc says are too general, but they are so powerfully truthful, and the crows, they know the truth, and they are not ready to grant any leeway to poor, poor Freddy.