Seen from the Car

A few winters ago, on a day that was ice, ice, ice cold, the kind of day when it takes your vehicle a solid six minutes to warm up inside once you've started driving, Bryan and I were headed south on Powers and noticed this:

A guy on a motor scooter, bundled and wearing a ski mask.  At 50 mph heading north on Powers, he was drinking from a travel mug.

He was happy under that mask, I could just tell.  Tootling along on a busy street on a too-cold day, and probably hot coffee has never tasted better.

I love picturing that guy. 

***

My mother, Sister #1 and I were strolling along the Chicago River on a 70' afternoon in April.  A speed boat motored slowly along with its radio blaring a happy tune.  Something with a baseline.  A lot of horns, which always sounds like a party, right?

There was one guy on deck that I could see.  20-something.  His shirt off.  Shades on.  His skin pasty white from the shelter through winter.  And he was dancing.

Day off of work?  And it actually happened that his day off coincided with perfect weather for boating?  He was probably the happiest guy in Chicago that day.

I love picturing him, too.

***

I was stopped at a light heading downtown in the Springs the other day, in the midst of our unusual streak of early summer.  We hit  82' yesterday.  And we're going on, like, day 10 of this.

Here's a lady taking advantage of it:  she was in a motorized wheel chair, oxygen tank hooked on the back, her purse on her lap.  She wore purple pants, a pink shirt and a yellow beret. 

Her left leg was crossed over her right, grandly, as though she were drinking a mint julep on her porch at home.  And she was smoking. 

She made it--at 3 mph--from one corner of Platte to the other, hung a left and rolled a couple of yards to the entrance of the Walgreens where she stopped to finish her cigarette.

***

I'll tell you what I see from our car:  sign holders. 

Are they all over the country now?

They are all over this city.

This time of year, there are lots of men dressed like Lady Liberty or Uncle Sam--tax offices nearby.  But mostly, these people are not in costume.

Some of them just rock the sign, to the beat of their music, I presume, as 100% of the sign holders I've seen are hooked into iPods.

Some of them are fancy with their moves, though.  So fancy that I usually cannot read the sign. 

Is there a sign-holder agency that works like a temp office?   Or does Al's "We Buy Back Gold" Pawn Shop place a "sign holder wanted" ad?

How much do they make?

Do they drum up any business to justify the wage?  They must.  Because there are more sign holders out now than ever before.

Do they get a piece of whatever business they bring in?  How could they?  There's no way to measure their effectiveness. . . 

Hmm.  Wonder if I'd have done that job as a teenager.

***

Do you know what I look for, as I drive or ride, but rarely see?  Truck nuts. 

They make me laugh.   In the same way that I'm embarrassed when I laugh over something related to flatulence, I am embarrassed for laughing over truck nuts. 

There was a car somewhere in our neighborhood--must have been, because we saw it quite a few times--that was a total beater.  The driver was a young guy who didn't look cool.  He looked. . .quirky in that nerdy-but-individual way.

To this crummy car's rear bumper, the guy had attached a homemade pair.

And that item turned the entire vehicle into some kind of statement.  I don't even know what kind.    But it must have been funny because Bryan and I lost control every time we saw it.

I miss that car.  Haven't seen it in over two years.

***

I love seeing a guy in his truck with his dog next to him.  Makes me happy for the dog. 

***

When I see cops lying in wait for speeding traffic, I blink my lights to warn drivers headed into their trap. 

I didn't used to do this.  I used to frown upon the practice, and Bryan practiced it regularly. 

Now, I feel differently. 

I warned the guy, though, about the kind of relationship he was cultivating with citizens. . .

***

In the Fall of '93, Dad drove me to Omaha, Nebraska for my first semester of college.  His last child to go.  A new season for us both.

Northern Iowa was just recovering from a disastrous flood.  Our routed took us straight out I-80 and most of the time, across Iowa, the road was banked by lake after lake of flooded fields. 

The going was slow, as traffic was often reduced to one lane. 

At that pace, we both saw a huge yellow butterfly skitter past the windshield.  Surely we'd have killed it if we'd been going 70. 

Sure it was worth the extra hours of slow traffic to have seen it together--this lovely pair of wings, headed somewhere.