Driving to the Future (Without Signaling)

WALKING INTO my house after another exhausting day in the Fields of the Lord—I had to work, like, six hours straight in an air-conditioned office, with only a couple hours for lunch!—I encountered the usual pile of mail on the floor, below the door slot, and underneath the cat who doesn’t move until the door squeezes him into the radiator. (Another window into my world. You’re welcome.)

Picking up the pile I noticed a letter from my car insurance company. Most correspondence I receive on this topic rudely accuses me of “paying too much!” (How do they know?), but then offers to correct that error in a mere “15 minutes of your time, because you can’t afford not to!” And that’s just on the outside of the envelope.

But this envelope was unmarked—no italicized words of condescension or false promises to trigger an immediate toss into the recycling bin. It was a plain envelope portending—as plain envelopes do—ominous content, such as a legal summons for some unknown transgression that I’m sure was unintentional, plus I swear I wasn’t even there when it happened!

But then I opened it: “Because of your history of good driving,” the letter began, “your next accident is on us.”

Say what?

My insurance company was, in effect, telling me that I can just get in my car and crumple, bend, or otherwise crunch another car and it’s cool with them. And they won’t think less of me, or raise my rates! This, to an aging driver with weakening eyesight, slowing reaction time, and a growing bitterness watching young people laughing over their craft beers and welcoming a future filled with medical advancements too late to benefit me. A man filled with a growing rage that can now be taken out ... on the road?!

Sweet.

I won’t state which insurance company it is, because they don’t need free publicity. (They want an ad, they can buy an ad.) I will clarify that, even though I’m progressive, it’s not that one. Nor am I “in good hands,” which always sounded kind of creepy. Whether a small, foreign-born talking lizard is involved, I won’t say. But I digress.

WHAT CAN I do with this new opportunity, this new power!? Up to now, when conveying a needed corrective to bad drivers, I’ve been limited to methods with only marginal effect. Honking, for example, when telegraphing my displeasure at another driver’s rudeness. Or gesturing in a futile but elaborate pantomime to scold a driver refusing to pull fully into the intersection when turning left, making me miss the light. (And if they do that when it turns green, will I miss the light again? Will I be stuck there for hours, for days, slowly dehydrating as young people on bicycles pass by, laughing in a carefree manner?)

But now, according to my insurance company, I can take more punitive actions. I can simply push a recalcitrant driver from behind, shoving a car into the proper position when turning, or nudge it from the side. They might lose a rearview mirror in the process, or the ability to open a passenger door until it’s repaired by the body shop. But not to worry. I’m covered.

Or if a driver yells at me for having my turn signal on for the last 10 blocks—my God-given right as an elderly driver—I can simply fishtail my car into their rear fender as they pass. Oops. Happy to exchange insurance information.

Or (you thought I was finished?) instead of leaving an angry note on a car taking up two parking spaces at the gun show, I can just back into it so hard the trunk pops open. (Dude, what’s with the three cases of Diet Dr Pepper?)

In short, I can make an impression, literally, because I’m filled with righteous indentation. I am Road Warrior. The Punisher. Judge, Jury, and that other thing. And what better time than now, when I was wearying of the impotence of my current role—Highway Geezer, a driver who has much to teach but no authority to do so.

But should I use this new force myself, or save it for future generations? Could I pass it on to one of my adult children, to whom fate has already dealt more than their share of vehicle incidents that were “totally not our fault!”? Or could I bequeath it to my granddaughter, who can use it when she sideswipes several parked cars while excitedly texting that she passed her driver’s test?

Nah. I’m using it myself.

HEY, THAT GUY with the “How’s my driving?” bumper sticker just cut me off!

Well, I’ll tell you how’s your driving. In fact, let me show you ...