Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Bless the Buicks

Every time I’m in a hurry, I end up behind a Buick.

And I’m always in a hurry.

Sure are a lot of Buicks on the road. Tell me - why did we have to bail out G.M.?

I know, I know. I’m trash-talking the Buicks. Being politically incorrect about their drivers. Not very nice of me, is it? I can’t help it.

Because, slow-Sunday-driving in the PASSING lane of the INTERSTATE, there he is again - the sweet, fedora-topped, Buick-clad man in front of me. God love him. I hope, I dream, I aspire, someday…to pass the dear gentleman. That’s what the left lane of an interstate is for - passing.

Dear Mr. Buick: It’s great that you’re not in a hurry. How nice for you! Mr. B., did you know that it’s 5:35 p.m., Thursday evening on I-70? Did you know that the minimum legal speed of an Interstate is 45 m.p.h.? Did you know your turn signal’s blinked for the last 27 miles?

If you‘d look up, you‘d see that the 59 sets of headlights behind you are in a bit of a, well, a pickle. Already, we’ve been away from home for half a day. We’ve got kids to pick up, spouses to nag, “American Idol” to watch. Really Important Stuff.

It’s O.K. though, Mr. B., you‘re not the only one pounding my pulse right now. Let’s not forget Mr. Sneaky-Right-Lane-Passer. Yeah, I see you!

Slyly flying up, stealing along my passenger side. Trying to cut in front…You think I’m going too slow?

You think I’m going to let you squeeze in, don’t you? Ha ha ha…

Dream on, Sneaky!

You’re the opposite of Mr. Buick. Speeding around in your fancy sports car. Whipping in and out of lanes, all cocky, all dangerous…

You thought I was holding you up, didn‘t you, Sneak? Now that you‘re up here beside me, you can see that we‘re all at the mercy of our darling Mr. Buick. He’s lost in the 50s on a country road. We mustn’t interrupt his reverie.

Oh, and Sneaky? Enjoy that right lane. You’re not going anywhere.

I guess it would be nice to live in Mr. Buick’s world. Never rush-rush-rushing to make it to the next appointment, the next event, just to get up tomorrow and do it all again. Our boss? Yeah, that’s right, he’s our ’boss,’ not ’supervisor.’ Same guy for decades.

Ah - olden-times.

Now, many of us travel an hour or more to work, every day. We consider ourselves lucky to have a job. Our supervisors change as often as Mr. Sneaky-Right-Lane-Passer over there changes lanes. Stay at a company more than five years? Ha! Only if you’re very, very lucky.

Hmmm…maybe you’ve got something there. Maybe I want to live in your world. Don a jaunty cap, hop in my Buick, back up traffic and cause some cussing.

You know what? That day will come for me, Mr. B., that day will come. All too soon.

But right now, I’m stuck in the middle. I’ve got crazy Sneaky swerving beside me, and you, pokey Mr. Buick, in front.

If Sneaky doesn’t kill me, Mr. B. might just let me arrive home. By, say, Sunday?

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