Tag Archives: driving

The Straight and Narrow

The Central Garage at the university is all lines and angles and primary colors. Well lit and dry, an annual white wash keeps the walls fresh.  Angled car stalls are outlined in white against the dark floor like hundreds of chalk outlines at a murder scene. Diagonal crosswalks, the white-striped corridors that offer the suggestion of safety for pedestrians, cut across open spaces between the cars and yellow-painted walkways that lead drivers up and out of the garage into the fresh air.

Three times a week I park in the bowels of the garage.  My assigned parking area is on the lowest level—marked by vivid green —and at the farthest remove from the exit that takes me nearest to my building. So, three times a week, I walk from one end of the parking lot to the other, thoughts tumbling whichever way they will:

Do I need to make copies? Did I bring my key? Is there time for a coffee before class? Will my perennially absent student show up today? Do I care if my perennially absent student shows up today?

Three times a week, thoughts tumbling whichever way they will, I park my car, cross in the diagonal crosswalk to the N-shaped pedestrian ramp from the green zone to the red, and enter the narrow yellow-bordered path painted on the floor.

Sharp right to the end of the row of cars, sharp left along the wall, continue skirting the wall to the exit. Up four flights of stairs and out.

Three times a week, I reverse the process and go home.

It’s unremarkable, really. The parking garage is a utilitarian space for housing my car. It is a space in my day–a physical and mental space–that equates to nothing more than a way—a tool, even—for leaving one thing to do another.

But then one day, I noticed something.

The garage was half-empty as I began my head-in-the-clouds journey from car to exit.

Would anyone actually notice if I parked in the red zone instead of the green zone? Like in that empty space by the exit that I can see from all the way over here? Does anyone even check the permits?

Leaving the ramp, I made the usual sharp right into the yellow-bordered pathway, took a few paces, and stopped.

Just me there, no one else. Not a moving vehicle in sight. The space between where I stood and where the exit sign glowed in the far corner was virtually obstacle free. A direct as-the-crow-flies line was open before me.  And, yet, I had still begun to turn away and unthinkingly follow a painted yellow path along the perimeter of the vast expanse of concrete.

The idea that I’d been doing this—blindly following routines, being guided by painted paths I never really looked at—struck me as simultaneously poignant and silly. Full of meaning, if I wanted it to be. Or not.

It was clear what must happen next. Obviously I had to step out of that path. The narrow path laid out by parallel yellow lines was a painted suggestion, not an absolute.

I stepped out.

But there was an odd momentary pull as I crossed the painted yellow line. Imagined, no doubt.  But it was almost as if my brain wanted to give me a chance to turn back.

“Whoa, there. Are you sure?”

And so it has been. Three times a week, I pull into the Central Garage. I park. I get out of my car. I automatically follow the lines. At the end of the ramp, it takes a few beats for me to remember.

And then I cross out of the straight and narrow, making my way–as a crow does–across, out, and away.



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28 Degree Morning

Driving down Aurora Avenue after a cold morning fitness class. Toes and hands numb, I enjoy my heated car seat, the welcome warm air from the heater’s fans pointed right at me. I feel good as I thaw out, tapping my hands on the steering wheel. A loud song on the radio.

Singing along, I stop at a red light in front of The Purple Store, an example of ridiculous consumerism if ever there was one. I glance over, always surprised that it’s still open. And there he is, on this bright 28 degree morning.

Lying against the wall, two dirty foam mattresses keeping him off the ground, if not away from the cold air rising from the sidewalk. Blankets piled up over his sleeping bag, reaching to his chin. Awake in his hood, he stares miserably at the sky, Big Gulp cup by his side, an empty food container next to it. He looks eerily like my student, Billy.

Billy, the funny, friendly college kid with the look of an affectionate puppy. Billy, who with his mix of humor and seriousness, makes his classmates laugh. Billy who everyone likes.  Billy who, unlike many of his peers in class, spent his childhood playing baseball and hanging out with his friends instead of spending all his time under parental pressure to study. Billy worries about that sometimes. Does it mean he’s not sufficiently serious enough to tackle the future?

The young man lying on the sidewalk on Aurora, trying to keep warm on a 28 degree morning could be Billy’s twin brother. If this or that had been different, he could have been a Billy, himself, sitting in a college classroom instead of lying on the ground trying not to freeze. Making his classmates laugh instead of staring miserably at the sky.

The light turns green. I drive away.

Billy/not Billy remains.


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Walking Man

For years Walking Man and I took the same road. He, on foot. Me, by car. In opposite directions. He, south. Me, north. Me, south. He, north. Mile after mile, day after day.

Always passing. Passing the vacant lots, the hookers, the bus stops, the broken glass, the gun shop, the organic co-op, the eCigarette store, the cross-fit and yoga studios, the mani/pedi salon, the school, the Dollar Store, the paint shop.

For years Walking Man and I took the same road in all its weather. Rain, sleet, snow, sun, dust, cloud, smog trapped over the six-lane road.

He, always, in brown pants with brown sweat jacket, hood pulled over his dreadlocks. His skin, hair, long matted beard the color of chocolate, the color of his clothes. Tall, handsome, some days a slight bounce in his step, others a steady grace. Always the same pace, always straight-backed, arms swinging by his sides.

Me, windshield wipers on or off, heat or AC blowing, windows cracked or not. Stalled in heavy traffic or gliding down the lanes on rare open days. Me, in clothes that shifted layers from day to day, season to season, choices dependent on what I observed from the comfort of my home in the mornings before I left.

After Christmas came and went this odd winter, Walking Man wore a new jacket. Brown and cream houndstooth, with fleece cuffs and collar. The fresh milky color of the fleece contrasting with the rich brown of the pattern. Chocolate brown, matching his hoodie and his pants, his skin and his hair.

Someone knew what color to get.

When the weather worsened, the new jacket was layered beneath the old. Cuffs and collar just visible. Graying.

For years Walking Man and I took the same road. He, on foot. Me, by car. He, silent. Me, singing along to the radio. One day Walking Man was talking to himself. Agitated, fists clenched. Something needed to be said. Something important. The next day silent again, back to his slow, steady pace.

I went away for a while and then I was sick for a while and stayed bundled up at home. When life resumed its normal pace, I took to the road again, day by day. It was a week before I realized it.

Walking Man was not on the road.

Another week, and another.

I asked a friend, the only one I knew who also measured her trips down the road by his presence, “Have you seen Walking Man lately?”

“No. Now that I think about it. It’s been weeks.”

“I’m worried,” I say. I have imagined terrible circumstances.

“I could contact homeless advocate I know,” says my friend. “Maybe he can tell us something.”

Maybe he could. But I think about many things. About freedom and privacy and well-meaning but clueless gestures. And I think about a new houndstooth jacket with fleece cuffs and collar.

I wondered then as I wonder each time I take the road again–

If a person is no longer there, no longer where we think he ought to be, does that mean he’s missing?


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Imprint — Thumbprint

I didn’t feel any pain as the knife slid first through the bagel and then through the tip of my thumb. Severing it almost clean, just a small hinge of skin held it in place. A cry of shock, not of pain. No swearing. The rush to the closet, supplies flung everywhere. I grabbed gauze and a washcloth, wrapped the bleeding thumb securely in the bandage, then the cloth, and rubber-banded it into place. I yelled for TK to run next door to the neighbor’s, to ask her to drive us to the Emergency Room.

N____ can be counted on to be prepared for every eventuality. She pulled up to the house, her cooler-sized first aid kit balanced between the two seats in the back. We hopped in. Me, still not feeling any pain but waiting for it to kick in, breathing hard; TK calmly reaching over and patting my knee with her small hand. It wasn’t the first time she’d witnessed a parent-sized injury.


I am a skilled and practical driver. I’ve driven the route to the hospital through the narrow, traffic-laden geography of city many times. Some of those trips required both speed and strategy: while in labor with TK, and based solely on physical sensations of the roadway under the car, I called out shortcuts to my husband as he raced us through the dark streets, arriving mere minutes before TK was born.

I know my way up there.

N____, however, is a very cautious driver. She would probably prefer not to drive at all if she could avoid it. She is a person who drives at, or slightly below, the posted speed limits. She will not be hurried and, knowing this, she tries to distract me by brightly making small talk.

N____ pulls slowly into the empty street, comes to a complete stop at the stop sign, and drives north through the neighborhood.

I would have turned south.

She continues on, sure to stop at each of the next two corners, finally turning west onto a major arterial which has, as I well know, three long, congested traffic stops between it and the highway.

I would have cut south through back roads and turned towards the interstate at least two miles closer to the hospital.

In the time it takes N____ to reach the first intersection, the one with the longest light, I would have been at highway, gauging its traffic to plan my next move.

We are a quarter mile in the wrong direction. I would have been long gone.

I want to ask where the hell she’s going, but it is getting more difficult to keep pressure on my thumb. I know as well as anybody the first rule of first aid: apply pressure to a bleeding wound. I’m lightheaded and a little freaked out, but I am also aware that N____ is doing me a kindness on a sunny, summer afternoon in Seattle when no one else can. She is doing her best and I just need to keep my mouth shut, press my thumb into the roof of the car because it’s too tiring to keep the pressure on it any other way, and breathe.


Grinding minutes later and we’re still at that first light. The car is inching forward. A long line of traffic waits for the light to change, and when the occasional car turns right, we move haltingly forward just enough. My thumb has started throbbing and pain is searing its way into my consciousness. I listen to but can’t hear N____ and TK talking. Occasionally I’m asked, “Are you doing okay?” Her concerned eyes inspect me from the rearview mirror. I make sure to focus on her question, “Uh, huh.”

The light finally changes. Cars in front of us start forward, then pause as they turn to let pedestrians make their excruciating way across the six-lane street. We are three car-lengths from the intersection when the light turns red again.

He is on the corner as he is every day. Awkward cardboard sign, something scrawled upon it in Sharpie. It’s hot. He has no hat, thin white hair and scalp exposed to the glare. He leans towards the window of the first car, says something, backs away. The next car and the next car; he makes his way along the sidewalk. He sees the open window and me watching him. He perks up and walks towards us. “No, no, no,” I plead to myself. “Not today…” And there he is at the window, bending down to look at us, to ask.

His face is unexpectedly smooth behind the gray stubble of a beard just starting, his skin the shiny pink of a burn victim’s, though he has not been burned except by the sun. Watery blue eyes, small and alert, take us in. His sign droops as he leans on the car.

Before he speaks, N____tries to head him off. “We’re headed to the ER!”

“You’re going to the hospital?” he asks.

“Yes! She’s hurt.”

He moves closer. To me, “Are you hurt?”

“I sliced my thumb. I can’t give you any money. See? I have a bandage.” I’m nauseous now; I don’t want to explain. It doesn’t occur to me that I don’t have to.

“Is this your mom?” he says to TK. She nods.

“That’s terrible. That’s terrible you got hurt.”

“Yes. But I’m going to get taken care of.”

He looks at me with concern. He steps back, adjusting his sign.

“I’ll pray for you,” he says. “I’ll pray for you.”

The light turns green.
The day passed as expected. It took us a long time to get to the hospital: we hit every red light; we had to take alternate routes to avoid congestion caused by the annual Sea Fair celebrations; we stopped so N___ could wisely rewrap my tight bandage. While my thumb was stitched back together by the doctor, N____ and TK went for lunch, bringing back a bagel sandwich for me. (Bagel? “You’ve got to get right back on the horse,” says N____) Home, then movies, then dinner kindly brought over by our Good Samaritan.

The next day I turn north as TK and I drive to the store, stopping at the corners, turning west on the major arterial that I almost always avoid traveling. TK says, “Why are we going this way?”

“Oh, I’ve got something I want to do.”

We slow for the wait at the light, inching forward in the line of cars. He is on the corner as he is every day. Awkward cardboard sign drooping when he stoops at car windows. I hand TK a couple of bills.

“Give those to him when he comes to the window,” I tell TK.

“Why?” she asks.

“Because he did me a favor yesterday.”

“He did?” She’s puzzled. “Okay.”

The man approaches the window. TK gives him the money, and he looks at us both without recognition. We are just two more of the hundreds of people he sees every day. There is no reason for him to remember us.

I wave my bandaged hand at him and say what I wished I’d said the day before.

“Thank you.”

And the light turns green.


Filed under A Moment, Imprint