Road Warrior

Thousands of cars travel Main Street each day. They are the
destinations being sought at a future moment, covering the same inches
of asphalt without fail. The same route to work, trip to the market,
car pool to practice repeat and the day after day becomes the year
after year in a continuous kind of ceaseless wandering. The cars are
the rats scurrying through the maze hopeful for a gratification of some
sort at the end, known or unknown.

The gray Cutlass belonged to the group of drivers who revel in the
ceaseless wandering for unknown gratification. His consistent travel at
any given part of the day was only obvious when he didn't circle the
town. The sight of his car became as regular as the seasons and the
waves or nods he received were all part of the process of moving across
the dancefloor made of pavement, sidewalk and society in all its glory
and disrepair.

The mirror hung off the side, watching the pavement casually pass as it
swung tentatively on the electronic connection it once shared with up,
down, left, and right. Useless now, it served as a poignant reminder.
The denial of the clear view of what was behind him now was a symbolic
representation of his drive through life. It proved to serve as a lack
of necessary retrospect. If you don't look back, you continually make
the same mistakes again. This was indeed the driver's tendency.

Each day he would make dozens of passes down Main Street, turning at
the light, left or right. Then his spider web like travel would take
him down the side streets until he circled around to find the main
route again. The cracked windshield still allowed a reasonable view of
life and he barely paid attention to the glint that smiled at him from
time to time as the sun reminded him the light travels differently when
the surface is changed.

He watched what was going around him as he moved at a snail's pace or
flew down the street when traffic was light. It wasn't as if he had
anywhere to go. He didn't. Rather, he had all the time in the world and
a healthy workers compensation check every month to allow him to keep
driving. It never occurred to him to go to a different town to do this.
Why should he? He knew his route and all the people he encountered on
the way. His vehicle was the place where major decisions and opinions
were born. The vagabond group he associated with on any given day would
jump in as he slowly pulled over and the conversations about all topics
would ensue.

The topics discussed were no different than those pondered in any other
social setting. Politics, weather, gossip, entertainment, and personal
vindications of those and a hundred other topics swirled in the stale
compartment of the vehicle. The cast of characters each proved their
points and over time, he knew what the script would say before they
said their lines. It was one of the classic roles he chose to portray,
that of moderator or director, if you will. He'd keep the comments in
line when they became too raucous. There had been one more than one
fist fight in the car over an opinion. In fact, the several he had
partaken in as he drove finally allowed him some retrospect and all
fighting ceased as the car wound up on the sidewalk, barely missing a
woman and her child. He had to have some rules.

The car would make several stops along the way for food or beverages,
cigarettes or gasoline. Always there were the pockets of discussion
with the local vendors. They'd speak their peace to him about one thing
or another in the space of time alloted for a stop and then he would
continue on, to mull over the opinions, ranting and raving or agreeing
with his cronies in the passenger seat until the next stop.

The true error of his ways was the insidious effect he had upon the
town in general. Over several years he had developed the most annoying
feature of following too closely, driving away from situations where he
could actually be helpful or kind, and managing to find the most
disreputable individuals in town and include him in his strange circle
of friends. If reputation is judged upon the company you keep, then it
would have been in his best interest to fix the rear view mirror and
look at the error of his ways more frequently. Apparent to all, was
that his wandering was senseless, ceaseless, and the very definition of
unproductive.

If you asked the fellow what he was doing in his mission of vehicular
repetition, he would easily reply. He considered himself the road
warrior. Fighting the urge to be complacent in opinion and sharing his
thought processes with those who would defend their own as they passed
life every day was the only thing he knew to do. He left his mark in
the place that he lived and refused to see the roll of the eye, the
shake of the head, the leer of the police as he continued on his
trek.

Crossing the railroad tracks with a slight jog of the wheel to the
right for the twentieth time in four hours, he flicked his tenth
cigarette out the window and pulled over to pick up a passenger. The
rattle of the door as it slammed confirmed that the next battle was
being set in his war with words and petrol and life. Nodding and saying
hello, he steeled his shoulders and prepared for his role as warrior,
yet again.