No, really, how am I driving? Let’s talk
“How’s my driving?” those bumper stickers on industrial vehicles ask, and they give you a phone number to call.
I have never actually called because I know what would happen: You get into a conversation with a trucker, and then where’s the day gone?
And yet, in these my hours of acute road rage, when I dream of roller-blading the empty freeways like the hero of John Cheever’s “The Swimmer,” I have come to several conclusions.
I have decided that we are all driving so slowly around the city of Los Angeles that one could commute about town in a horse and buggy without disturbing the general pace of traffic. In fact, if it’s a choice between a horse or one of those BMW X5s making a major-intersection left turn in a timely fashion, my money’s on the horse. Here’s the thing, people: Until we realize we’re in this driving thing as a collective, we’re doomed.
And yet, there is a solution right in front of our noses. What I am advocating is but a modest proposal: Require all vehicles operated within the city of Los Angeles to have a “How’s my driving?” sticker affixed to the back bumper, along with a phone number.
For example:
“Hello?”
“I was stuck behind you on La Brea and Washington, and when the left arrow signal turned green, you didn’t move for a full five seconds.”
“Oh.”
“Can you tell me why you think it happened?”
“I daydream in the car sometimes.”
“Driving is a collective endeavor. We’re all in this together.”
“I know. OK, maybe also I was looking for this song I like on that new Norah Jones CD. Have you heard it?”
“I have. I love that song. More important, you’re avoiding the issue.”
“I was also on the phone.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Think of the progress such open-ended dialogue would make in our collective driving. Honking would become gauche, like greeting people at a dinner party with a single blast of a clown’s horn.
Even a cursory student of human relations knows that the quickest way to solve a problem is to begin a dialogue, which leads to more dialogue, which leads to an impasse -- and it is this impasse, of course, which then leads to more dialogue, and the all-important second impasse, and from there you’re home free.
“Hello?”
“I saw you today in that traffic jam on the eastbound Ventura Freeway. I want you to know that I was thinking the same thing. That breakdown lane was wide open.”
“Oh my God.”
“Freeway gridlock is kind of an affront at 4 p.m. on a Saturday, don’t you think? Driving is a collective endeavor. We’re all in this together. I could see you wanted to turn the wheel of your ... is that an X5?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You wanted so badly to turn that wheel into the breakdown lane and just cruise. I applaud your instinct. The whole thing about traffic is that it depends upon our willingness to sit in it.”
“But I’m afraid.”
“You think revolutions happen because they’re easy?”
A few weeks ago I got pulled over for what the police officer called a “rolling stop.” I gave the officer my driver’s license, which had expired, and my insurance form, which I thought might’ve lapsed because my check was late.
I realized that from where he was sitting in his vehicle, writing up my ticket, he had a perfect view of my left taillight, which had been broken for months.
For a second I wondered if I was going to jail. It was a Friday afternoon, and I didn’t have much planned for the weekend anyway. This was bracing: Where did I need to be, who was counting on me, that a few nights in lockup would affect?
I could be a latter-day Henry David Thoreau, staying in jail (where I might fast, taking advantage of an opportunity to diet) and refusing, in the name of civil disobedience, to deal with my ticket.
My Walden Pond would be Lake Arrowhead. From there, on a very powerful computer provided by I can’t say who, I would make and circulate “How’s my driving?” bumper stickers. I would also take long walks, of course.
Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, the following conversations would be taking place.
“When you’re at Trader Joe’s, and there are several open parking spaces, can you not sit there in your X5, or whatever it is, waiting for someone to back out of the space nearest the entrance?
“Is your time really that valuable?”
“Of course not. Nobody’s is.”
“Well, then, I don’t think I needed to hear from you on this one.”
“Driving is a collective endeavor. We’re all in this together.”
“Maybe I just didn’t appreciate your tone when you said ‘X5.’ ”
“Quite right. I apologize.”
“Apology accepted. And you’re right, I should’ve just taken the first I spot I saw.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. The Trader Joe’s parking lot brings out the worst in all of us.”
“I’m glad we talked.”
“Me too. Me too.”
*
Paul Brownfield can be contacted at paul.brownfield@latimes.com.
