I never want to be that person. Ever.
I live in daily fear that my car will suddenly go silent while stopped at a light or as I try to make a left hand turn. It’s not an irrational fear, mind you, given that my car has logged well over a hundred thousand miles, and during its recent tune-up, the mechanic warned me that my serpentine belt is cracked and that the water hoses need replacement. Ever since he uttered that cautionary statement, callously tossing off the information while wiping his hands on a greasy rag, he knew that I’d be able to think of nothing else while behind the wheel. He knows me.
Now I white-knuckle my way through the streets of LA certain that at any moment, I’ll be the sole reason for a traffic jam, and on the next “eight,” KFI will announce from their chopper in the sky that there’s a SIG Alert. Determined drivers will try and pull around my disabled vehicle, maybe even cause a satellite accident, or two, and I’ll bury my face in shame until AAA or some other miracle comes to rescue me.
I’m sure Loyd Sigmon never meant to do this to me, but he did, and I resent the hell out of him.