Monday, August 20, 2007

Taking Turns

My friends, Mr. and Ms. Lion, have agreed to messily devour all vehicular miscreants I feed them. You’ve been warned.

Why is taking turns is so difficult for some people? If you have siblings, you learn to take turns at home; if not at home, you certainly learn it in school. Raising hands is a way everyone gets a fair shot at answering a question. Standing in line ensures that everyone gets from point A to point B without being trampled. Answering “here” when the teacher calls your name is the ultimate in getting your turn.

There are, however, some so-called adults who seem to believe that the rules apply to everyone but them.
There’s a four-way-stop intersection I negotiate every day on the trip home. Most people are able to remember their place in the order of things. Every day, however, there’s one car whose driver is important and in a hurry and just can’t stand waiting if there’s a chance of squirting through the intersection before it's their turn.

I’m a patient person (no, really) when I’m waiting my turn and I’m not about to gun it just to shave a few seconds off my commute. It would be wrong, it would be extremely bad karma, and it would be close to impossible in a 12-year-old minivan. I know that the clowns who decide they don’t have to wait at that intersection are closely followed by the daggers looked at them by the goody-two-shoes they leave behind. Like me.

So far, a Mercedes, Volvo, Camry, and BMW have jumped the line. Does this mean that people who can afford nice cars believe they’re entitled to call their own shots? Possibly. However, I think that it’s the quasi-anonymity afforded them while they're behind the wheel. Unless they’re driving a distinctive car or truck, they're just another face in the crowd.

On the other hand, Delaware is a very small state – the kind where you can run into your congressman at a local eatery or event. I may not have the best memory for names, but faces stay with me a long, long time. So, today’s Mr. Volvo and last week’s Ms. Mercedes, know that I’ve got my eyes peeled for you. When I see you again -- in your car or out of it -- I may just know who you are. And I sure won’t have any problem mentioning you by name when I talk about people who have some growing up to do. Or when I'm asked for the names of people who should be fed to my friends, Mr. and Ms. Lion. They particularly enjoyed the jerk who was driving that Rover.

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