NASCAR at the stoplight

The light is red. I am willing myself to relax, to embrace the slowness of the intersection in readiness for the yoga class mere blocks away. Something about proximity to a wellness activity ramps up ones behavior. Before and after a class I'm more mindful, conscious of breath, thinking nicer thoughts. In the midst of preparing the yoga mindset, (if only it were second nature), I'm jolted by the noise and instantaneous motion of my body. I've been hit from behind. At a red light! On the way to yoga! We'd already been stopped for a minute, probably more, it didn't seem possible. It takes a second to realize I can turn my head and see what happened, that I don't need the rear view mirror. Another second and I realize I should get out of the car to see what exactly happened. It’s a sporty, not quite muscle car from the 80's that rammed my bumper. The driver: a pale, moustached boy of 16? or 18? A girl sits in the shadows of the passenger seat. Everyone's okay. Even though my Obama bumper sticker was in better shape than the lawn sign that was run over I should probably stop wearing his button on my jacket.

An important lesson for a driver new to the south is to stop at green lights. For someone raised in an aggressive driver land the truths of accelerate on the yellow, turn right on red, and gun it on the green are not only self-evident but essential for self preservation. Back in the southlands there might be only a couple cars stopped in front of the red. It turns green. You are approaching with sufficient distance to think that if you just ease off the gas the sparse traffic ahead will be in motion by the time you reach the light. You are in the process of self congratulation for your efficient mastery of the road when you realize that you are about to hit the car that is not moving in front of you. It is stopped at the green light. After more than a couple close calls you begin to reframe your rules of the road. Slow down, even when the light is turning green. Do not cruise into the shoulder to pass a car that is stopped for a left hand turn. Slow down excessively when someone in front of you has their right turn signal on because it is likely they will take that turn as speedily as syrup cane flows from an upended jar. Tempering my inner Rhode Island driver has been a slow process. If suppressed long enough the urges to accelerate, pass, and weave inexplicably bubble to the surface and I find myself randomly exceeding the speed limit or riding a little too close to the bumper of the car in front of me before my husband or better judgment step in and prompt me to ease off.

We pull into a nearby parking lot. Both still stunned. I get the sense he's afraid. I realize that with my sloppy hair and baggy yoga outfit (if only I'd dressed like those put together yoga women in their matching warm up jackets and Capri pants of perfect length and tightness, accessorized with headband and sneakers). Instead I looked a bit ragged, and sound a bit edgy, not unlike someone who might, say, walk around with a neck brace on account of a fraudulent personal injury suit. He shakily gave me his insurance card and I scrawled down the details trembling. He mumbled something about getting used to the car, about something happening to the clutch. It hadn't been a tap of bumpers caused by a distracted slip off the break pedal. It was almost as though he were trying to rev the engine, popped the clutch and lurched forward. A patrol car cruised past and I caught it at the red light on foot. Disheveled and clutching my scrap paper incident report I asked if there was anything we needed to do. It was an accident but thankfully not a real accident, no bodily damage, human or auto. The perpetually sore neck and upper back that prompt the inefficient trips from the mountain to town for yoga not unduly harmed. The cops said just take down the info, nothing to be done. I reassured the kid that I'd only taken the information in case something came loose under the car as I drove away or some other unforeseen consequence emerged soon after. He didn't seem convinced but looked relieved to be able to pull away from the scene. I watched slightly horrified as he peeled into oncoming traffic.

I gave a longing look to what was supposed to be as I passed the yoga studio and continued down the road to run an errand. The vagaries of traffic patterns allowed me to follow his plumes of exhaust and erratic driving. I initially dismissed the peel out as nervousness. Trailing a safe distance behind I became disturbed that the relatively slight inconvenience his negligence caused me might cause something far graver for someone else somewhere down the road. He wasn't doing anything illegal in my short window of view, nothing I could call the police about. I had actually felt a little guilty about being curt and serious in our brief interaction and questioned whether I'd have been more relaxed and don't worry about it if he hadn't looked so NASCAR. In the land of stopping at green lights I worry about a boy that can't be counted on to keep his car stopped at a red.