In Cool of Their Cars, Hotheads Rule Roads

It was the kind of day when you wonder if you missed all the “Bad Drivers Eat Free” signs. First, a whole string of motorists was baffled by a perfectly straightforward accident on the 2; instead of going around it, car after car simply stopped behind it, presumably waiting for the two banged-up cars to dematerialize, until an increasingly impatient CHP officer waved them on.

Then there was the driver of a white panel van who thought, “Why actually try to merge when there is this handy shoulder?” and hurtled along in a spray of gravel until some poor soul practically sideswiped a green Honda while swerving to let him in. The surface streets between downtown and La Brea Boulevard moved in a spastic cha-cha-cha of just-missed accidents, clutch-popping lane changes and oblivious back-up lights.

At intersections, where usually two cars would make the turn on red, now three and four roared through. But it wasn’t until a silver Taurus inexplicably, and unsuccessfully, attempted a sudden U-turn in the middle of Beverly Boulevard, backing up traffic through two intersections, that I began to suspect someone had slipped something into the water supply.

At first, I thought it was me. I have noticed that people who complain about other drivers are often doing so as they sail through stop signs and make right turns from the left-hand lanes. So when I began to criticize my fellows, I gave myself a drivers-ed once-over. Turns out, it wasn’t me. It was them. Them all over the place. Driving like maniacs. Driving like people in other parts of the country say we drive. Driving like New Yorkers say we drive. Now, we can’t have that.

For a moment I hoped I had simply stumbled into an extended movie shoot, yet another film in which comic relief would be provided by the streets of Los Angeles, as imagined by a director whose knowledge of the city extended from Beverly Wilshire to the Shrine Auditorium. In a limo.

But then I remembered that I don’t have a SAG card, and they are pretty picky about that, even in traffic scenes.

So I tried to blame the tourists, but I couldn’t make it stick. Too many non-rentals involved. I was forced to admit that many of my fellow citizens had simply lost their minds. I cast around for an explanation and blamed it on the heat. After a July sent straight from heaven--skies by Boucher, breeze courtesy of the Pacific--this weekend was a ruthless reminder that L.A. is a desert, and in the desert, August is the cruelest month.

When it’s hot, tempers run high, as do air conditioners--and when the a/c is on in the car, the dissociation many drivers feel, from the environment, from other drivers, is exacerbated. We are in our metal bubbles, with our climate control and our personalized soundtracks, our iced lattes and our cell phones. Masters of our fate. Who are these other life forms, with their annoying habits, and how can we get them off the road?

According to CHP Officer Luis Mendoza, there is a slight increase in traffic collisions in the summer, especially after 3 p.m. on hot days, though not enough to warrant alarm. This year, he says, the weather has, until now, kept people cool, literally and figuratively. Which might explain the urban demolition-derby mentality I was seeing Saturday. For some strange reason, Angelenos are always surprised, and irritated, when it gets hot in the summer.

On the other hand, this bad driving day might have been one of those reminders--from God, the universe, Caltrans, whomever--that for all our kvetching about traffic in L.A., it usually moves pretty smoothly. Most people obey the rules most of the time. Which is pretty amazing when you think about it.

I’m still keeping an eye out for those Bad Driver specials, though.

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Mary McNamara can be reached at mary.mcnamara@latimes.com.