I still barrel down the freeway when there’s a hole. I look for the lane that’s moving. A successful trip on the 405 or 101 means no dead stops. That’s my goal.  I fail everyday.

It is a metaphor for my life that I don’t understand.

Stand still you die.

Keep moving you thrive.

I bogart lanes. I take advantage of everything. I drive this shit every day and I know when and where all the sweet spots are by the minute.  I am the king of sliding right in at the very end of the lane without pissing anybody off.

At the same time, if there’s a red light ahead, I’ll let you in. If you show me your blinker after you fucked up and forgot to get over, I’ll let you in.   If I’m about to get off and you’re looking to merge, I’ll let you in.  I try to pay it forward.  As long as you’re quick about it.

On the other hand, I’ll blow by you from the right hand turn lane and jerk left in front of you before that fucking car parked at the other side of the intersection.

I drive a stick.

My car is quick and nimble and small but it’s not fast. Not through all six gears. The bandwidth for first second and third gears is powerful good but after that I’m not about to drag race. Fourth fifth and sixth sync differently with the turbo. It is what it is. I’m competitive in the low gears.

I drive accordingly.

Cut me off or don’t let me in fair and square and I’m quick enough to pull in front of you and drop it in neutral, throwing my hands up in confusion. Honk at me under the wrong circumstances and I just might put on the flashers and get out to throw up the hood right in front of you in a turn lane.

I’ll look you straight in the mouth and tell you it died when you laid into your horn.

Fastest I’ve driven it is 137 mph.  Middle of the desert.  Two lane blacktop and I could see at least two miles ahead of me.  Not one car.  Fiance asleep beside me.  A thunderstorm directly ahead.  The only time I ever used sixth gear.  The sun came out.  Fifteen years ago.

She ain’t what she used to be and neither am I.  I don’t want a new car.  I want to restore it.  Make it better, stronger, faster.  Punk the gangsters in the throaty Mercedes’.

I live in Los Angeles.  You can’t get anywhere in this city unless you have your own driving zen.  Mine involves a certain amount of aggression and a certain amount of courtesy. Scoops of hubris and disdain. I’m pretty sure I’m a dick.  Yet I get the ‘thank you wave’ as often as I give it.

I need exactly two things.  A little bit better driving etiquette and for my car to be much faster.

It is a metaphor for my life that I don’t understand.

Drinks for my friends.

 

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