The
Second Life of Walter Mitty
"Bandits bearing .001 at 50 miles and closing!" shouted the
Commander into the radio mike. Dead ahead, emerging from a cloud bank,
was a
swarm of Japanese Zeroes, as thick as bees, headed for the fleet. His
lone
Corsair seemed a bent-wing mosquito whining high over the Pacific,
waiting to
be swatted—but his cockpit was emblazoned with a score of Rising Suns,
in
remembrance of those who had tried. It looked as if reconnaissance was
going to
turn nasty today. The hardened ace curled his mouth into a tight sneer,
and
added, "Better scramble a couple of dozen, boys. Look's like we're
having
company for breakfast. Over."
No
reply.
"Charley One to Fox-trot Alpha, do you read?"
Static.
Frantically, he spun the frequency dial searching for friendly chatter
as he
stood the plane on its port wing. Banking 180º at full throttle
wasn't exactly
recommended in the flight manual, but it was the closest the Navy F4-U
fighter
could come to an about-face.
Crack!
A
sickening gall rose the Commander's gut as black droplets began to
splatter the
glass in front of him. The Corsair lurched, stalled, then lurched
again. The
engine's buzz-saw roar spluttered and gasped a dying,
"Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa..."
The carrier was still in sight, but just barely. Oily smoke began over
the
canopy..."
Images of the long, gray carrier
deck and that
heroic steel-blue fighter suddenly melt into the mundane view over the
hood of
my 1976 Mercury Marquis...pastel yellow at that. I believe the swirl of
activity in the distance is an accident. In another mile, or so, I
should be
able to tell. That is, if the exhaust from that diesel truck just ahead
doesn't
choke me first.
Yes,
Walter Mitty is alive and well, re-born in the soul of the embattled
rush-hour
commuter. The alter-ego of James Thurber's benighted daydreamer still
performs
his daily feats of derring-do along highways and byways of imagination
as
nimbly as he did a half-century ago. You may argue that Mitty's
daydreaming
ways constitute a traffic hazard. After all, driving is deadly serious
business. True. Yet in order to get from Point A from Point B in one
piece,
today's motorist must display not only concentration, courage and
skill, but no
small amount of saintly patience. That's where our hero come in. Mitty
is a
therapist, of sorts, helping to keep millions of hard-working Americans
from
going postal in gridlock.
This
morning for example, I am navigating through ”The World's Second
Largest
Parking Lot” (for non-natives, that would be the US-75/ I-635
interchange
in Dallas, Texas). It's 7:55 a.m.
and I've been all but parked on the
same spot for twenty minutes. I'm due at work in five minutes and only
have
eighteen miles to go. Perhaps a cell phone is the answer. At least
then, I
could call in late...or call out for a pizza.
I
never cease to be amazed how an eight-lane freeway can become so
completely
ensnared by something as simple as a flat tire. More amazing are the
recurring
accidents on deceptively innocent stretches of roadway (i.e.—level,
well-paved
straight-aways with no traffic lights, intersections, on- or
off-ramps). I've
wondered whether those spots weren't once occupied by Gypsies, who
cursed the
ground when their homes were condemned as right-of-way.
Of
course, other cities have their own commuting hassles. In New
York, for instance, ambidexterity and
coordination are de rigueur. A colorful vocabulary helps, too.
Drivers
must steer with one hand while leaning out of the window, cursing and
gesturing
with the other hand. I believe it's an addendum to the driver's test
within the
five boroughs. Of course, regional rules of etiquette must be observed.
Whereas
in New York,
brakes are hard-wired to the brake pedal for sheer efficiency, in Memphis,
Tennessee, leaning on your horn is
a good way to
get a ticket. In Los Angeles,
"The Blue Ribbon, Grand Champion, Mother of All Parking Lots, Forever,
Amen," it's a good way to get shot.
Public transportation isn't always the answer, either. There are two
city buses
stuck in the fray behind me. I recall being stuck in a Manhattan
subway for forty-five minutes one
afternoon. The cause? Commuters at Lexington
Street station refused to disembark a
malfunctioning train and wait for a replacement. The NYPD had to be
called in
to "explain" the situation. I missed a meeting that day, but learned
a valuable lesson in applied commuter survival: if your arm begins to
cramp
while holding a briefcase on a crowded subway, just let go, it won't go
anyplace.
It can't. (Please note this rule does not apply to ladies'
handbags.)
Slowly now, traffic inches forward. A late-breaking traffic report
makes clear
the source of today's irritation. A road construction crew has decided
that
rush hour would be a fine time to block six-out-of-eight lanes of a
major
freeway. Of course, the workers aren't on site, yet. They're probably
stuck in
traffic, too. At least a half-dozen cars are stalled out in this mess.
One
overheated car caught fire, and now the freeway behind me is shut down.
These
things have to be looked at philosophically, however. Fighting traffic
is an
American institution. Like the Internal Revenue Service, what would our
lives
be without it? O.K.—bad example. Anyway, traffic is a great equalizer.
That
overheated car is (excuse me, was) a BMW. The backup now
reaches five
miles in either direction. I'm stuck somewhere in the middle. Maybe
I'll make
work by noon.
"Hardly worth dyin' for," muttered the
Sheriff. He squinted out through a dusty window of the old jail house
as the noon
stage pulled into town. He continued
loading his Colt Navy .36.
A
boom town during the silver rush, the wind-swept streets of Durango,
now held only a handful of stores, a
saloon and the jail. The abandoned opera house, the hotel and all the
rest were
merely ghosts, bleached by the relentless sun and creaking in the wind,
eerily
moaning of their past glories..."
© Russ
Brown, 2000