Mad Man on the Highway

Mad Man on the Highway

by Gary Resnick (Ghost-written by Ellen Resnick)

           My wife thinks I’m a mad man on the highway.  In fact, if things get too perilous, she reclines her seat, closes her eyes, and takes deep yogic breaths.  I know the thoughts that are going through her head because she used to verbalize them.  That was until she noticed that her shouting, threatening,cajoling, and pleading elicited no change in my highway behavior.  Now, she just reclines.

             Before I describe what gets her so upset and defend my actions, I want to assure you that I am a calm and rational man --not some hot-head who routinely gets out of my car at traffic lights to point my finger—or worse, a gun—at someone who had the nerve to pass me.  I’m a safe and skilled driver:  After 40 years behind the wheel, I control my moves on the road with accuracy and finesse as if the car itself is an extension of my being.   In fact, my driving skills are honed so sharply that I can safely take photographs while driving, keep my foot steady at 9 miles above the speed limit and instinctively make it through a yellow light at an intersection, even with my eyes closed. 

           Now that I’ve established my safe and responsible driving behavior, let’s return to the situation that gets me in trouble with my wife.  This is how the maddening scenario unfolds:  I’m on a highway in a 65 mph zone, driving in the left lane at 74 mph.  I quickly approach two cars side-by-side in the left and right lanes, both driving at the same pace below the speed limit.  After a few minutes trailing them, I become annoyed.  Feeling boxed in like a pawn on a chessboard with limited options, I politely flash my high beams and hope that the dazed driver will notice the glare and move the car over to the right lane where it belongs.  If the driver peers in the rear-view mirror, I quickly put on my turn signal and vigorously shake my right hand with thumb pointed in the direction he needs to move.  My wife's seat is reclined and her eyes are closed, but the anxious grinding of her teeth signal that she senses my frustration.

If the left-lane creep decides to ignore me and I’m on a two-lane highway, I’m doomed.  This is when I dream of the forklift contraption I want to invent that, at the push of a button, emerges from the front of my car, slides under the slow-poke in front of me, and gently flicks the car over to the right lane.   I’ve even come up with a name for my new car accessory, The Auto-Flicker.

Now, if it’s a three-lane highway and the left and middle lanes are blocked, I have an alternative.   I turn my wheel sharply and dart into the right lane, which is the only place to pass the two turtles.   I don’t like this option because not only is it hazardous, but it also hits my wife’s hot buttons big time.  She grips the door handle and mumbles a barely audible protest, “Oh no, not again….”  I defend my actions, explaining to her that I wouldn’t have had to swerve so abruptly if the left lane culprit had only paid attention to page 61 of the NJ Driver’s Manual that clearly states “Keep Right, Pass Left.”  After maneuvering my car into the right lane, I assess the terrain and spot my re-entry point.  I speed up to pass the cars and glare through the window, shouting friendly expletives.  This usually gets my wife going good. 

           My ravings are in the form of questions:  “Why are you in the left lane if you are the slowest car on the road?”  “What could you be thinking?”  “Are you thinking?”  “Don’t you know the driving rules?  Did you ever hear of “Keep Right, Pass Left”?  Having heard these emphatic queries many times before, my wife sticks her fingers in her ears to signal me to stop.

I don’t understand why slow drivers continually plant themselves in the left lane, the one meant to be occupied by faster, passing drivers.  I figure that they are oblivious, arrogant or just plain inconsiderate.  The oblivious left-lane driver has zoned out and is clueless that he or she has created an impasse for other cars.  The arrogant one probably feels that since he or she paid their taxes, they can damn well drive in whichever lane they please.  And the inconsiderate type doesn’t pay attention to conventional driving etiquette.  “It’s all about me getting to where I want to go; forget about the other cars on the road.”

          These drivers represent more of a safety hazard by being in the wrong lane than the long line of cars like mine trying to find ways to pass them.  So, wake up, be considerate, follow the rules and get the heck out of the left lane.  It would sure help lower my stress level and save my marriage.

              

When the Phone Rings...

            Since my daughter Jenna left for college, I rarely call her; she calls me. During Jenna’s freshman year, it seemed like I always caught her at a bad time, so we decided it would be best if she contacted me.  Now she’s 23 and living in D.C., and we follow the same rule because she can still fit herself into my life easier than I can fit into hers.

So when Jenna calls, I’m eager to talk.  However, raising the phone against my ear, I usually hesitate ever so slightly before I say, cheerily, “Hi Jen.”  I know that in the next few seconds I will discover which type of call this one will be.  There’s the free-flowing, chatty one; the exuberant “I can’t wait to tell you what happened!” call; the short and clipped obligatory type; and the call that begins with silence, followed by a burst of garbled sentences and tears.

The “free-flowing, chatty” call is the most frequent and is our chance to catch up on the week.  As Jenna describes what she’s been doing, I picture her in sweatpants on the over-sized leather couch in her studio apartment.  It’s a deep one and she’s leaning against a big pillow in the corner, legs folded underneath.  Other times I see her slumped down, with her long legs stretched straight, heels resting on the wooden coffee table.

The second type, the exuberant “I can’t wait to tell you” call, is the one I enjoy the most. After answering the phone, I encounter a fast-paced string of sentences that forces me backward into a chair.  Jen spews excitedly about some accomplishment at work that earned her kudos from her boss, or shares an endorphin-filled account of a long run in the park.  It’s as if my daughter has been transported through the phone, swirling out like a genie bursting from her bottle.  There are colorful sparkles and I see Jenna’s beautiful, broad smile and bright brown eyes appear before me. 

The third “short and clipped” phone call is the one I really don’t enjoy.  It comes when Jenna’s not in the mood to talk but realizes she hasn’t spoken to me in a while.  Her sentences are terse and the words come through the phone like wood.  I used to try coaxing Jen out of her mood by introducing interesting topics, but the conversations ended up a game of 20 questions with me asking and Jenna responding with unsatisfying one-word answers. 

When I receive this type of call, I assume Jenna’s had a hectic day.  I envision her standing in work clothes, messenger bag slung over her shoulder.  If I hear some echo-y sounds in the background, I know she’s waiting in a crowd for the Metro.  Or I see her in black tights, rushing across the bridge to Adams Morgan to get to yoga class.  For these calls, I quickly say, “Hey, Jen.  It’s great to hear from you, but it sounds like you don’t have time to talk right now.  Call me later.”  She sounds relieved, and the call ends with a quick click.   

The last type of call is the one that comes in the middle of the night.  The ring is like a siren and I jolt up, scanning the room, wondering what woke me. As I orient myself in the dark, my body prepares for action – blood rushes, pupils dilate, muscles contract.  I snatch the phone from its cradle.  Something must be very wrong. 

There’s no Caller ID this time, just the loud jarring sound intruding into the peace of the night.  There’s no light-hearted “Hi Jen” coming from my end either.  My voice comes out tentative, fearful, “Hello?” 

There’s a pause, after which I can make out the word “Mom?” through a torrent of muffled sobs.

“Jen?  What’s wrong?”  My visions are a quick-moving kaleidoscope of dark images:  Jenna lying on the city sidewalk in the wee hours, curled up in bed with her hand clutching

her stomach in pain, standing by the side of a car with a bloody figure at her feet. 

After she says through tears, “I’m really upset …” I start breathing again. She’s okay.  My baby is alright physically, but she is horribly unhappy.  I yearn to wrap my arms around my daughter and wipe the tears from her face.  As Jenna begins to explain, I tip-toe out of the room and settle onto her old bed down the hall for what will probably be a long conversation.

However unpredictable Jenna’s calls, I am thrilled when I get them because I want to know what my daughter’s doing and feeling. I want to understand her comings and goings, triumphs and sorrows.  Regardless of which type of call I receive, each one gives me a glimpse of her independent, far-away life.  It’s these virtual connections that hold our bond intact between our visits during holidays, birthdays and mother-daughter weekends.  So when the phone rings and I see it’s Jenna, I will continue to grab it eagerly to find out what the call will bring.

A Special Shavasana

           Down dog.  Side angle pose.  Warrior two.  My muscles ache, and I’ve stretched as far as my body will allow me.  I feel accomplished and calm, and ready to succumb to the sweet reward:  shavasana, the final resting pose.  Kessiah, the yoga teacher, instructs us to lie flat on our backs and I eagerly slide down onto my pale green mat.  As Kessiah’s soft voice guides us into a restful position, I gently press my shoulders against the floor and move my arms away from my body, palms turned up.  My legs melt and my feet turn out and drop naturally to the side.  Closing my eyes, I lose awareness of the other students in the room; I’m alone in my own space. 

The sun has already begun to descend over Randolph and the yoga studio seems especially soothing this evening:  The windows are open and there’s a light rain pattering outside.   As my body leans heavier into the floor, my head becomes lighter.  The random thoughts in my brain dissolve, replaced by the singular sound of the rain hitting the pavement. 

            I listen to the gentle tapping for a few minutes, and then my attention moves further out to the cars passing on the road.  I usually long for total silence in shavasana; but tonight I find the rhythmic hum of the traffic soothing.  I’m drawn into the sound and begin to pay attention to tiny details:  the speed of each passing car and the interval of time between them.  I detect differences in the engines and imagine the string of cars– the heavy truck straining up the hill, the sports car whirring by, the parade of lumbering SUVs.  

             As I surrender to the soothing timbre of the passing cars, I lose sense of my physicality and my mind and memory transport me up the road.  The first landmark is the miniature golf center with brightly painted animals.  Then I pass the small white church with the cemetery behind it.  A little farther, I see the metal railing that marks the stream where my friends and I used to search for tadpoles.  Finally, I reach my destination:  the narrow, tan clapboard house that sits at the edge of the street beside a wide dirt road.  The large familiar white sign with sturdy posts stands tall at the intersection.  It reads “Tucker’s Bungalows” in thick blue lettering above a red arrow pointing to the entrance of my grandparents’ summer cottage community.

             My spirit enters the house directly into the small TV room.  It passes through the narrow hallway into the kitchen, where Grandma stands by the sink talking quietly to Aunt Sara, the round woman with the gray bun and big smile.  I sneak by unnoticed, quickly crossing the dining room in a diagonal path to the door that leads to the attic.  I open it and climb the steep stairs to the top.  My eyes scan the crowded space for the narrow window that faces the street.  I find it, and in the dim light, I can make out the twin beds with the bureau between them –the one with the antique white finish and the gold curlicue lines painted on the drawers.  My memory moves me to where I want to go – over to the beds, where I sit on one and sink down into the soft mattress.  There’s a familiar mustiness, a smell that only belongs to this wonderful place.  I untie my sneakers and throw them to the ground, and then pull the many covers back towards the end of the bed so I can fit my feet and knees underneath.  As I lay my head on two fluffy pillows, I pull the blankets up and over my shoulders.

              Just as I close my eyes, I hear footsteps laboring up the attic stairs, and I wait for Grandma to come.  My eyes are still closed, but I sense that she is now right by my side.  She doesn’t say anything, simply bends down to kiss me twice – once lightly on the cheek and again in her unique way, rubbing her small wrinkly nose gently back and forth against the sides of mine.  “Just like the Eskimos,” she whispers.  Grandma smoothes the blankets tightly around my small body and turns out the light.  Once I hear her footsteps recede and then backtrack down the stairs, I settle in under the layers of blankets until I’m in a comfortable position.  I feel relaxed, safe, and loved.

                As I lie in bed and wait for sleep to come, I hear rain begin to drop gently on the pavement outside the house.  The window in front of me is open a crack and I listen to the cars passing by - soothing, rhythmic, mesmerizing. I’m drawn into the sound and begin to pay attention to tiny details:  the speed of each passing car and the interval of time between them.  I detect differences in the engines and imagine the string of cars– the heavy truck straining up the hill, the sports car whirring by.     

                 Every now and then, I hear a car stop and then turn slowly onto the road next to the house, the one that leads to Tucker’s Bungalow Colony.  I hear the crunch of the tire treads across the pebbles as the car advances and then disappears behind the house. The familiar harmony of muffled sounds relaxes me and soon, they lull me to sleep in Grandma’s house.

                 I’m awakened by the Tibetan singing bowl reverberating against Kessiah’s wooden mallet.  She taps the bowl three times, each ring progressively louder to gently ease us out of our restful state.  I begin moving my fingers and toes and then raise my arms over my head and push energy down into my straightened legs and pointed toes. Turning my body to rest on one side, I tuck my hands under my head and feel the weight of my knees and hip against the floor.  

                I wish I could stay longer, but the next yoga class is already assembling outside.  I move my body into a sitting position on my blanket.  Eyes still closed, I inhale deeply and exhale slowly as I join the other voices in our final “Om.”  I force my eyes open and kneel over my mat so I can roll it up. Yoga class has ended.

I practice yoga at Bright Heart Yoga in Randolph.  Two miles up the road is where my grandparents, Sylvia and Harry Tucker, owned a bungalow colony in the 1950’s and 1960’s when Randolph was called Mt. Freedom and it was a community of summer resorts.