Road Warrior Tales: Now I Wear Mittens

This is NOT Jerry

My fingers started to itch and tingle, and then an arm. I had a serious case of the heebie-jeebies like I hadn’t had in years. Even worse, I was behaving like a whacked-out driver in a Max Sennett movie as I jammed down the highway toward the City at a million miles an hour. I had someplace to be too soon and a long list of “not mets” scrolling through my brain. I clung menacingly to the steering wheel. Outside, it was way too hot. Feelings like this came over me in the old days, in other lives: the Sixties, rough times at home, bad places at the edge of night – I had kicked a bunch of habits. If I had time, I could tell you what they were.

Suddenly changing lanes, I pulled in behind a slow moving semi-trailer, took a deep breath, and just as quickly reached for the Blackberry and glanced down. It had been way too long. My body relaxed. Before the guilt set in, I knew for those few seconds that I really needed that phone in my hand. I would have used my Jawbone, but I left it in a rental in Seattle, or maybe Columbus. I hadn’t replaced it yet. I was none too sure a hand’s free device was much safer than the real deal. I had been trying to cold turkey the phone/car thing for weeks. I had gotten so close. Then it happened; the semi lunged back at my car like an enormous dervish. I heard myself gasp. Brakes jammed and tires screamed. The Blackberry crashed against the rear window and fell to the shelf behind the back seat. It started ringing.

An hour later, I sat on Folsom at Third Street in a nightmare of traffic at rush hour. I was going to be late for a cause that was great: hosting a wine dinner at Local Kitchen to begin at 6:30 P.M. It was going to be a Syrah Extravaganza, with delicious wines and special seasonal treats and it was Sold Out. There must have been a Giants game, or something else that had caused several thousand cars, buses, and taxis not to move. Long minutes after that, I still sat; the car idled, the Blackberry occasionally rang or made its annoying bling-blang sound. I glared at it in my rearview mirror. The phone’s little red light glared back.

At 6:25 P.M., I pulled a Winston Churchill – which wasn’t easy. When he still drove his own car, he would become equally frustrated with traffic to the point of driving off-road to find a more convenient route – often, the sidewalk. If I inched up onto the curb with only two wheels, crept forward the short part of a block, I could lay claim to a whole alley and a legal parking space, which I could clearly see. I sensed Churchill smiling as I moved the old Benz with boldness. Properly parked, I heaved a case of wine to my shoulder and ran in a semi-professional manner for three blocks and arrived on time. Of course, everyone had called from their cars about the traffic. Dinner delayed.