Car Wars

(Reposted from a previously published diary.)

Commuting is just not the same anymore. I now live in a college town and my commute is an eight-mile drive down a four-lane road passing right by the campus. Naturally, we have the occasional fender benders, usually caused by a distracted or daredevil student, but normally my commute is blissfully calm. I call this routine blissful because I can remember my days on the Dallas motor speedways and the nightmares that were commonly referred to as car wars.

On one such day, I was headed home along a north Dallas beltway known as I-635. The traffic was heavy but moving fast on this hot summer day and I was hoping my luck would hold. I-635 is an eight to ten lane divided highway, complete with a high-occupancy vehicle lane. The speed limit is posted at 65, but any Dallas native knows that you either fly along at 75 mph in tightly bunched packs or you sit still as one of the hundreds in a solid, stagnant ribbon of metal on asphalt. It was on this fly and die or sit and spit freeway that I found myself everyday at this time.

I was just topping a hill as I saw the string of a thousand brake lights in front of me. Luckily, I hit my brakes and my little Nissan began to slow. I liked my little maneuverable car. My personal theory on car wars survivability is based on the fight or flight theory. A 1-ton pickup with a plate-metal and tubular steel brushguard is the only way to fight. A small little car with enough "go" power to match your fear is the only way to flee.

Anyway, I came to a stop with room to spare and I craned my neck to see as far ahead as possible. Of course, I could only see the backs of a hundred other craning necks. I reached down and flipped my lazy boy seat lever and leaned back as far as possible without dropping below the steering wheel. I learned long ago that the only good that can come from a traffic jam is a little shut-eye. I had just taken a nice, deep, cleansing breath when I heard a sound that, to this day, is etched in my memory.

Having never been in the military, my only experience with automatic weapons was as an audience member in front of a screen, but it did not take real life experience for me to recognize the sound of machinegun fire. The staccato banging buffeted my ears as I tucked my head down as far as possible below the windows. The rapid pops continued as I leaned over into the vacant passenger seat. My left foot came off the clutch and the car died with my right foot jammed against the brake. I could only presume that I was caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs and I covered my head with my arms in the hopes that I could shield myself from the glass that would inevitable be shattering around me.

The gunfire ceased as suddenly as it began leaving me still face down in my seats. I could feel the center console pressing into my ribs but I dared not sit up. I could only reason that the gang members were reloading and I was in no hurry to test my theory.

An eerie quiet calm seemed to wash over my senses as I listened to my commuter world. The radio still played and the fan still hummed but no horns blew and no screams reached my ears. Perhaps everyone was huddled in fear as I was. Perhaps worse yet, everyone was dead. What was I saying? You can’t kill hundreds of motorists with a five-second blast of automatic weapons fire. And where was the return fire? After all, Texas leads the nation in concealed weapons and gun racked deer rifles.

I ducked lower at the sound of a blowing horn. Again it blew, but this time it repeated in a rhythm that communicated not fear, but annoyance. Slowly I sat up and looked out of my back window. The man behind me was now hammering his steering wheel with one hand and pointing in my direction with the other. I turned my head and, to my amazement, saw a 200-foot space between my car and the back bumper in front of me. I slowly scanned the area for hostiles but saw none. I wiped my brow and took a breath. My hands were still shaking. I started my car and pulled ahead, still amazed at the apathy that seemed to pervade the masses of commuters.

I pushed across the lanes to reach an exit, knowing I had to check my car for damage. I pulled into a gas station and drove up to the sign that read “Mechanic On Duty.” I let the car idle and got out as a guy wearing the name of Joey came out from under an Oldsmobile. “Water is on the side,” he said. I looked at him without having any idea what he had said. “Water for your radiator," he said with a bit of patronization in his voice. "You look like your overheating.”

I was fighting to find the words to describe my incredible experience when my ears rang from the familiar and terrifying popping that had sent me ducking for cover only moments before. I jumped, but the mechanic remained calm. “That would be your air-conditioning pressure relief valve,” he said as he wiped off the wrench in his hand. “Man, I’d hate to be you. No air-conditioning on a day like today will kill ya.”