Being born in Massachusetts meant that I was raised to see the pavement spread before me as a battlefield. Driving wasn’t simply just a way to get from point A to point B but also to get there before anyone else. I was used to being in the backseat, observing the scenery, while my father sped and swerved. “Damn blueheads,” he would mutter and I would twist quickly, trying to see the blue skinned alien in the slow moving car beside us. I was always disappointed to be faced with an old woman with graying hair that peeked over the steering wheel. He often mumbled that no one knew how to drive as he challenged the limitations of the lines painted on the road. The yellow and white lines were not painted to direct my father but to assist the uneducated masses.
Most teenagers in drivers ed are taught that a yellow light means slow down, the speed limit is as fast as you should go, and to never pass over doubled solid yellow lines. I was taught those same rules but my father showed me exceptions while he said “Don’t do as I do” in a harsh quick tone. When my father approached a yellow light, I could hear the engine roar before the car pulled forward causing my head to unexpectedly hit the head rest. He kept up the pace even after we escaped the red light, passing a sign that stated the speed limit was 50 miles an hour. I glanced at the speedometer, 65. “Shit, I forgot my phone,” he cursed and hastily made a U-turn, passing over the two solid yellow lanes. I don’t remember where we were going but I recalled that he was in a hurry and maybe if he slowed down once and awhile, he wouldn’t have forgotten his phone at home and we wouldn’t have wasted time to get it.
While I drove the speed limit going south on the highway, I spotted a blue sedan dancing between lanes and cars to a beat that no one else could hear. It didn’t take me much time to catch up and in the next few moments I was behind the impatient car. The first thing I noticed were her two bumper stickers that read “Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History” and “I hated Sarah Palin before it was cool” which made be chuckle. For some reason, I felt the need to see who was driving. All I could spy was a small bump of dirty blonde hair. I changed lanes, using my blinker, and drove beside her. She was plain looking, not fat but not skinny and not beautiful but not ugly. She had an inbetweenness about her that fascinated me. I knew I should have been watching the road but my eyes yearned to look through her passenger door window.
Her hands clenched the steering wheel and the whiteness of her knuckles was a sharp contrast to the rest of her lightly tanned skin. How hard was she holding on to that wheel? Her posture was stiff yet ready to pounce into the next lane. Except for a few rigid glimpses into her mirrors, her eyes hardly left the road in front of her. I hoped that the interior of her car would reveal something more about her than her feminist ideals and hatred of Sarah Palin. Strangely enough, her car was void of any personal touches. There were no beanie baby mascots on the seats or mardi gras beads hanging from the rearview window. Her car was so empty, so incomplete, so lifeless. Without any interior accents, I couldn’t even begin to draw a picture of who she was.
After my fifth glance, she saw stomped on the gas and swerved from the middle lane to the left then up the narrow breakdown lane. Within seconds she was ten cars ahead of me. Still, she wasn’t satisfied and returned to the middle lane. Cars honked at her and drivers scowled but she remained unaffected and defiant. Usually I would be annoyed by the impatient car, generally replacing the driver with the image of my father, but I didn’t mind her. She weaved and danced between us all, not with a sense of hurry, but with an impartial grace. There was no emotion, just fluid movement that always seemed to settle in the middle lane like a ballerina returning to center stage. She rejected the other drivers that moved with a synchronized speed. She lunged, she pivoted, she flew past us all.
My mind played Tchaikovsky's “Sleeping Beauty Waltz,” her movements quickening and pausing upon the whimsical and bold notes. The squeal of tires mirrored the crisp vibrations of a violin’s strings. The beeping of car horns rose to match the heralding brass horns reaching the crescendo. Middle fingers waved in her direction, composing the orchestra of sounds that she left in her wake. The sky darkened, the curtain fell, and the audience applauded at her disappearance. I was the only one who cried for an encore.