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The Art of Non-War

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Kathleen Miller is a freelance writer based in San Juan Capistrano.

My best friend’s husband’s bedtime reading is the Thomas Guide map book. If he had access to small children, Jim would be reciting the tale of those visionary Thomas brothers who gave us the guide for asphalt survival skills. It sits within easy reach on his bookshelf in the honored slot next to Webster’s Dictionary and Roget’s Thesaurus.

Why does he peruse the pages for pleasure and second-guess the authors (“I knew La Brea ran two blocks farther”) as if he were reading a detective thriller? Because, like every other man I know, he cares more about circumventing obstacles to his destination than the actual arrival.

Whenever I visit Carole, I no sooner set down my purse than Jim wants to know “How was the 101? Did you take the 10? Come up Vermont? Use the interchange? How long did it take you?” And when he fights the L.A. traffic across town after a hard day’s labor and Carole asks, “How was your day, honey,” his response is a litany of hazardous conditions, near misses and overturned big rigs. But no matter how rough the conditions, there is victory to declare: He’s combat-weary and traumatized, but home 10 minutes earlier than yesterday.

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But there are gridlock defeats. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he retorts on those dark days. He simply can’t go there, having blocked the experience. Better to put it behind him; tomorrow is another stab at victory, perhaps another SigAlert.

Men may not ask for directions, but they thrive on describing how they got there and jump at the chance to advise on where to park. “What time should I leave to get to Santa Ana for jury duty, and do I need quarters for a meter?” my 20-year-old daughter asked the other night. Her stepfather, Brad, had just settled onto the sofa to watch the Angels game, tired from his long day at the office. His daily commute has grown dull--a straight freeway with little opportunity to challenge the obvious route. He bolted upright. The fire was reignited as he beelined downstairs to the war room to copy a page from the Thomas Guide. She sent him a text message upon arrival the next morning to let him know she had broken through rush hour; his ETA was right on. He was rejuvenated, 10 years younger.

One of the reasons I married Brad was because he always knows where he’s going. I openly admire his expertise and focused planning when it comes to avoiding lingering lines at left turns. He organizes errands so that he makes right turns exclusively, thereby saving precious seconds. It bolsters his masculinity. So when he suggested that we test the new route to church, I signaled the affirmative. We synchronized our watches and I headed off on the toll road to the 405 south, while he maneuvered Alicia to Crown Valley Parkway to Niguel Road. He beat me by two minutes, and after a high-five in the garage, we celebrated with a beer--the only medal available to reward such civilian competence.

Men need superiority over traffic congestion; it’s their version of war. Soldiers fighting today’s real wars no longer have the luxury of formal combat rules. The hostile force is unclear--a movement in the brush, an anonymous village, a car bomb. Here on the streets and freeways of Southern California, men have met the enemy and he’s driving the car that just cut them off, or he’s the kid whose cellphone is more important than the steering wheel. The enemy is visible, within range, an easy target.

Here a man can swerve to avoid, divert to another route, change the pattern. Even an aging antiwar child of the ‘60s can drive a Hummer. He can declare victory within the law and without taking lives. He can even spot the courageous comrade who waves him in despite gridlock, as they acknowledge each other with a military nod. How else can he bond with his fellow soldier, manifest strategic skill, display physical endurance and exercise power?

It crosses generational lines. My 87-year-old father, a World War II veteran, talks about driving to San Diego as if he has just navigated a mine sweeper through the South Pacific. Old soldiers never die; they just change lanes. There’s a catch in his throat as he reminisces about his day’s engagement with the enemy. The tale grows longer as he describes the two left lanes being closed, traffic backing up for “at least 10 miles.” At the last minute, of course, his reflexes kicked in and he cut around the hazard cones. “It was a close call, but I made it.” We again hear about the dangerous peril of overbuilt suburbia as congestion now strangles the once open road. The battlefield is different now; the combat rules have changed.

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And when I suggest that he take the train instead, he looks wistful. “That wouldn’t be any fun; then I couldn’t tell you how I worked around it.” I had forgotten what is so important to any man: the challenge that makes victory that much sweeter.

I’m relieved that our brave boys are out there keeping the road clear. And as long as I can encourage my daughters to “just call Jim” when they are aimless in L.A. or “ask Brad” when they are lost in some Bermuda Triangle of an uncharted freeway exit, I know they are in a safer world.

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