Accents
Go with the flow
The advice was given in a tone soft but firm, “Just go with the flow. You don’t want us killed, do you?” The driving instructor had just asked a question that didn’t need an answer. I glanced at the speedometer to find I was driving beyond the 65 zone. The thing to do: slow down and go with the flow.
Got to do the freeway in the U.S. of A. The determination was ever strong. And so, the freeway it was—with Eric, the driving instructor, beside me. The skill will certainly make me more confident when I go back home and drive in Iloilo streets. Fernan and Leeboy, my patient trainers in Iloilo, will be amazed when I’ll be driving them around. Why did I not learn to drive much earlier, they asked.
A traumatic experience sometimes leaves an imprint in the mind that’s very hard to dislodge. Hard to live down and overcome. In 1980, when we acquired the first family car, a Beatle Volkswagen, I drove it against the fence of the Oton Convent. C-r-a-s-h is the word that fits. I forgot driving altogether then, I think mainly because I had the hubby to do all the driving for me. I could be a very good backseat driver though. Say mo, Rod?
Being able to drive is a must here in America because there are many roads and byways not plied by public transportation—very much unlike Bayang Magiliw where jeeps are plentiful. To those who plan to work here in the States, retire or come for a vacation, better hone your driving skills before coming over; otherwise, you’ll be hopelessly immobile in the house. To the job-seeker, driving know-how is often a required qualification.f
Last Saturday, June 6, on our way home from Sacramento, California’s capital—a good 3-hour drive to Redding where we reside—the fellow who was earlier snake-driving before us, was pulled over by a traffic cop. For sure, a violation ticket was forthcoming. Could be a case of DUI (driving under the influence of alcohol and narcotics) or speeding, or both. Relevant to retell below this story involving a speedster.
"Speeding" by Manfred Koehler, is one of those forwarded stories that have escaped my delete key. Food for thought to those who curse potholes (with which Bayan Ko is wretchedly strewn), break through close shaves, and force themselves out of a bumper-to-bumper jam only to end up with a traffic violation receipt. Read on:
Jack took a long look at his speedometer before slowing down: 73 in a 55 zone. The flashing red in his rearview mirror insisted he pull over quickly, but Jack let the car coast.
Fourth time in as many months. How could a guy get caught so often? When his car had slowed to 10 miles an hour, Jack pulled over, but only partially. Let the cop worry about the potential traffic hazard. Maybe some other car will tweak his backside with a mirror.
He slumped into his seat, the collar of his trench coat covering his ears. He tapped the steering wheel, doing his best to look bored, his eyes on the mirror. The cop was stepping out of his car, the big pad in hand.
Bob? Bob from church? Jack sunk farther into his trench coat. This was worse than the coming ticket. A Christian cop catching a guy from his own church. A guy who happened to be a little anxious to get home after a long day at the office. A guy he was about to play golf with tomorrow.
Jack was tempted to leave the window shut long enough to gain the psychological edge but decided on a different tack. Jumping out of the car, he approached a man he saw every Sunday, a man he'd never seen in uniform.
"Hi, Bob. Fancy meeting you like this."
"Hello, Jack." No smile.
"Guess you caught me red-handed in a rush to see my wife and kids."
"Yeah, I guess." Bob seemed uncertain. Good.
"I've seen some long days at the office lately. I'm afraid I bent the rules a bit-just this once." Jack toed at a pebble on the pavement. "Diane said something about roast beef and potatoes tonight. Know what I mean?"
"I know what you mean. I also know that you have a reputation in our precinct."
Ouch. This was not going in the right direction. Time to change tactics.
"What'd you clock me at?"
"Seventy-one. Would you sit back in your car, please?"
"Now wait a minute here, Bob. I checked as soon as I saw you. I was barely nudging 65."
The lie seemed to come easier with every ticket.
"Please, Jack, in the car."
Flustered, Jack hunched himself through the still-open door. Slamming it shut, he stared at the dashboard. He was in no rush to open the window. The minutes ticked by. Bob scribbled away on the pad. Why hadn't he asked for a driver's license?
Whatever the reason, it would be a month of Sundays before Jack ever sat near this cop again.
A tap on the door jerked his head to the left. There was Bob, a folded paper in hand. Jack rolled down the window a mere two inches, just enough room for Bob to pass him the slip.
"Thanks." Jack could not quite keep the sneer out of his voice.
Bob returned to his car without a word.
Jack watched his retreat in the mirror, bottom teeth scratching his upper lip. When Bob vanished inside his car, Jack unfolded the sheet of paper. How much was this one going to cost?
Wait a minute. What was this? Some kind of joke? Certainly not a ticket. Jack began to read:
Dear Jack,
Once upon a time I had a daughter. She was six when killed by a car. You guessed it -- a speeding driver. A fine and three months in jail, and the man was free. Free to hug his daughters. All three of them. I only had one, and I'm going to have to wait until heaven before I can ever hug her again. A thousand times I've tried to forgive that man. A thousand times I thought I had. Maybe I did, but I need to do it again. Even now. Pray for me. And be careful. My son is all I have left.
Bob
Jack shifted uncomfortably in his trench coat. Then he twisted around in time to see Bob's car pull away and head down the road. Jack watched until it disappeared. A full 15 minutes later, he, too, pulled away and drove slowly home, praying for forgiveness and hugging a surprised wife and kids when he arrived. Ends the tale about one speed master.
What does the speed-crazy in our midst say to that? What was it Eric said, “Just go with the flow.” What may I add? Something most imperative: Just obey traffic rules. Simple as that. (Email: lagoc@hargray.com)