Mr. Cool
I am the driver behind whom you would rather not be driving. Not because I weave in and out of traffic or because I stop and go erratically, but because I obey speed limits, mostly, and I yield to pedestrians who are standing in the street as I approach from far away, allowing them to maneuver their children across so many busy roadways. Heck, I stopped on Route 62 to allow an ancient turtle to leisurely saunter to the other side. Then everyone stopped for the turtle. I guess no one wants to be seen as a turtle killer.
But someone did kill my uncle while he was crossing his street to go home after a hard day’s work. He survived for a week with a metal rod protruding from his head in a futile attempt to alleviate the blood pressure imploding in his brain. When I saw him in his hospital bed the morning after the accident, his eyes projected a look of fear and shock that I will not soon forget. Sort of like the face of a child when he gets caught in an act of mischief. Then he silently closed his eyes and held my hand with all his might. I could not believe that a careless SUV was going to end the life of a man whose presence at any gathering was truly a joy. If anyone was ever the life of the party, Uncle Bob was the guy. Suffice it to say that if you didn’t know him, you missed an opportunity to laugh your heartiest laugh or to feel the rumble of your deepest anger. Uncle Bob affected everyone.
One dreary morning I stood at the end of the sidewalk of a busy Belmont street, a child in each hand and a backpack on each shoulder. As we stepped off the curb into the faded crosswalk, Mr. Cool saw us from afar, sitting upon the pedestal of his gleaming SUV. Donning sunglasses on this drizzly morning, he stepped on the gas and nearly killed all three of us. I had just enough time to mouth the best four-letter word I know, right in his face. Silently, of course, saving my sons from their mother’s vulgarity.
More recently, traffic was crawling in front of a Boston museum. A school bus made several futile attempts to exit the driveway and merge into the traffic. So I waved the driver out, and three people behind me beeped their car horns and flailed their arms. The anger on the woman’s face behind me was so intense that I could do nothing but smile at her. She probably didn’t appreciate that as she sped past me on Storrow Drive. We met up at the next traffic back up. I smiled again and turned away to notice the ducks waltzing across the glistening Charles River.
My uncle’s tragic death taught some great lessons, not the least of which is that I no longer walk out in front of cars and trucks and buses that are gaining on me. It used to seem reasonable to assume they would not strike pedestrians, but now I know they speed up to see who can reach the middle of the road faster, and I am not playing anymore. Maybe the drivers will this game, but at least I can avoid the metal rod in my head and the premature eulogy read by someone who loves me. And unlike the turtle ignoring the speeding traffic on Route 62, I will keep my family and my friends in mind while I stand at the crosswalk and wait for the traffic to whiz by.