Slow Ride

ILLUSTRATION by BOB AUL

You were the bald old man—your little eraser-colored nub—barely visible behind the wheel of the slick, silver Toyota Camry that was creeping slowly northward on Long Beach Boulevard on a Friday evening at about 5:30. I came up behind you around the 405 Freeway—I remember because of how hard I had to hit my brakes—and we spent the next 10 minutes together, covering about two miles in all that time. You never topped 15 mph, always slowed down as you approached every traffic signal and ended up stopping at them all. You reacted to green lights as though they were options that should be mulled carefully before taken. As second-after-second turned into minute-after-minute of torturous slowing and stopping and sometimes sorta going, my impatience grew into amazement that transformed into anger that eventually became hatred. Finally, you turned into the Hof’s Hut parking lot—where I was headed, too—and I couldn’t wait to tell you what I thought of you. Then I saw you get out of your car, hobble around to the passenger side to open the door for your wife—both of you all dressed up for an early evening dinner—help her out of the vehicle and escort her like a noble knight, holding the door to the restaurant so she could enter before you. And I felt like an asshole.

HATE YOUR LIFE? LOVE YOUR WIFE? E-MAIL ANONYMOUS RAMBLINGS, CONFESSIONS, COMPLAINTS AND PRAISE TO ELLEN@THEDISTRICTWEEKLY.COM