My Fellow Travelers

Artwork by Michael DiMilo

By Geoff Carter

As I was driving to work the other day, I stopped for a red light at a fairly busy intersection. As I waited for it to change, a blue Mustang pulled up next to me in the right turn lane. The driver paused, looked both ways, and then zoomed straight through the red light. A car behind me honked—at him, I presumed.

When the light changed, I—along with the other traffic—continued on my way. At the next red light, who should I see but the same Mustang sitting in the far-right lane. As I pulled up next to him, I could see the driver glance both ways and then—once again—zoom through the red light.

When that light changed, I drove to the next stoplight—which was also red—and happened to see my old friend in the blue Mustang once again sitting in the far-right lane. The light changed as I pulled up next to him and he zoomed ahead, cutting me off as he veered into my lane. I honked this time.

I wondered why this guy was driving like such a fool. He wasn’t getting to his destination faster than anyone else. Even though he was running red lights and tearing ahead of me at every intersection, I caught up to him every time. What was the point? Maybe he hadn’t noticed we were catching up to him. Maybe speeding down the street made him feel as if he were getting ahead—figuratively and literally—whereas in reality, driving that way made no difference. We all get there. 

The aggressiveness was the point for him. I guess he wanted, or needed, to be the first one there—as if that mattered. All of us were going to get where we were going eventually, and—for those of us going to work—maybe we didn’t necessarily want to be the first ones there. But that was this guy’s mission.

Sometimes, as I navigate through traffic, I think about my fellow travelers—all the people going to work, going home, or going on errands. Every car with a life, a purpose, and a personality inside—and more outside. Big shiny pickup trucks, sleek SUVs, worn family minivans, new-age hybrids, and vintage muscle cars. Red, black, white, silver, white, or with neon lights. Each a reflection of either the person inside—or maybe the person they’d like to be. Tricked out in neon or rusty as hell. All going somewhere. Or going nowhere. Fast. Going, constantly moving, hardly stopping to think.

Some drivers constantly—and annoyingly—jockey for position, cut other cars off, and use their own car as a moving expletive, a perpetually raised middle finger.

Some drivers cocoon themselves into their metal shells, blissfully unaware of those around them, neither acknowledging nor caring about their fellow travelers. They plug themselves into their devices and transport themselves to lands beyond their everyday ho-hum existence. They barely realize they’re moving. 

Some drivers seem hell-bent on destroying themselves and anything that might get in their way. They run red lights, pass traffic recklessly from the right lane, and rage against the most trivial of incidents. They put themselves—and others—at risk. They drive in anger; they drive to punish. 

Some drive cars that resemble armored vehicles—outsized SUVs and gigantic six-wheeled pick-up trucks, that dominate the city streets designed for mere mortal-sized cars. These vehicles are not simply modes of transportation; they’re status symbols, emblems of power. A fair amount of the people I’ve seen driving these are not typically the workers like farmers or contractors that need vehicles like these to survive. They’re suburbanites, dilettantes who only want the biggest, the meatiest. To them, size does matter.  

Some ride in neon-lit, tricked-out, big-rimmed, pinstriped, window-tinted, and custom-painted vehicles that scream look at me—I’m special. And they are. Some of these cars are cool-looking. Others are, well… 

As I neared my destination that morning, I happened to pull up next to the blue Mustang at yet another red light. As usual, he was in the right lane and edging out into the intersection, ready to run the red light again. I glanced over at him. He was young, probably in his twenties, wearing headphones, and pulling on a vape. As traffic cleared, he edged out further, ready to dart out into the intersection. Suddenly, without warning, he glanced over at me, frowned, and flipped me the bird before zooming through the busy intersection.

The truth is that no matter what we drive or how we drive, we’re all going to end up at the same place. Those who drive recklessly might get to their destinations sooner than the rest of us, but they’re missing the point. It’s not about getting there first. It’s about the trip itself. We are not racing against each other. We are not enemies. We don’t have to be trying to run each other off the road. We should be trying to enjoy the ride. There are no winners in this race—the only guarantee is that one day we’ll all going to cross that finish line, so we might as well enjoy each other on the way there.