Fender-bender meet-cutes for the soon-to-be dead

You'll really want to read this week's Heydays column before continuing to read this blog entry. While Ed is still in the midst of the unexpected streak of coherence that we noted last week, the cracks are beginning to show. This week's cautionary tale of senior driving hazards is harrowing and disturbing in all the wrong ways. Welcome back to the tragic pull of creaking, irrevocable mortality, and remember to apply your brakes so you don't hit the vehicle in front of you while parallel parking. Grandpa, watch out, you're going to hit that car!



If this week's Heydays column was a vehicle, what kind would it be? A gas-guzzling 1991 white Lincoln Town Car, barge-like and luxurious in all the wrong ways, its steering badly misaligned? An economy-sized vehicle optimized for short trips to the grocery store and the chiropractor, maxing out at a whopping 30 miles per hour? I'm not sure there's an answer to this question that will satisfy, but one thing is certain: whatever the car, it will be driven by an ancient human whose brain stem no longer reliably sends messages to his leg muscles. Perhaps you have had the experience of being stuck behind the chronically old. Since Florida is officially the Land of Retirement^TM, this is no doubt a familiar experience for many of the regular readers of this blog.

When faced with the situation of being stuck behind a senior who is (a) driving very slowly, as if borderline comatose, or (b) erratically slams on brakes or accelerates at inopportune moments, or (c) drifts freely between lanes as if attempting a vehicular foxtrot to a Benny Goodman record running at half speed, there are several ways to respond:

• Christ-like patience and understanding.
  
• Simmering rage, cursing them out under one's breath, closely tailgating the slow senior driver, silently bemoaning one's fate.
  
• Full-on road rage, honking the horn, passing at the earliest opportunity while looking at the driver and making a series of obscene hand gestures or mouthing abusive phrases such as "What the fuck, grandpa?!?"
  

No matter which one of these options is chosen (or if all of them happen in close sequence), one thing is always sure to follow: a discussion during which a maximum age for driving is proposed. Sure, lawmakers in Florida (and elsewhere) have made tentative steps to address the epidemic of senile drivers, but even with new statutes regarding driver's license renewals for drivers over 80, tragedies like this one still occur at an alarming rate.

The sad and humiliating tale of senior driving that Ed Hayes relates this week is harrowingly similar to the accident above that ended up killing nine people, critically injuring 14, and hurting 40 others. Read it and weep as Ed explains how he ended up rear-ending two parked cars:

• "Forty yards into the park, two women and four children stand aghast, ogling me, obviously attracted by the sound of the mishap when my big foot -- after I jiggled to and fro in the parking space -- slipped off the brake and slammed down on the accelerator."
  

And compare to the CNN article above about the massacre in Santa Monica:

• "An 86-year-old man who drove his mid-size Buick through a crowded farmers' market Wednesday told police he couldn't stop and may have hit the accelerator instead of the brake."
  
• "'He looked very, very confused," [a witness] said. "I think he was just mentally out of touch. He seemed very confused when he stepped out of the car. He definitely shouldn't have been behind the wheel. He was definitely not quite with it.'"
  

Sure, Ed seems grateful that his vehicular muscle spasm did not result in something more "calamitous" than three cars "suffering abrasions," but still, I think he pretty much avoids the giant, octogenarian-in-a-Cadillac-like elephant in the room, that perhaps he should not still be driving at the age of 83. How does he accomplish this impressive elision? By finding the silver lining in the cloud of noxious gasoline-fire smoke: he met some interesting people while waiting for the police and fire department to arrive on the scene.

Though he may have met more people, Ed makes the most of his accidental meeting with the owner of one of the cars he needlessly plowed into: a fireman whom he variously describes as "young," "tall," "stoic" and "handsome," an ex-football player and an all-around decent human being. Here and elsewhere, Ed's description of the men borders on homoerotic, as later the policemen who arrive at the scene are described as looking "sharp," "two of [OPD's] finest." I guess our favorite retiree has a thing for men in uniform, especially when they are ex-athletes. Can't say I blame him, really.

The funny thing about all this is that, though Ed clearly gleans some personal information about the biography of the young, handsome fireman (and owner of a newly dented car, thanks to Ed's leg spasm), nothing that great comes out of the situation. He ruins a couple of fenders, and a few people's days, is issued a traffic ticket, and pledges to be a more careful driver. Then the column ends with this bizarrely optimistic sentence:

• "I'm not advocating anyone get deliberately involved in a fender-bender, but you sure do meet the nicest people."
  

Um...really? What's so great about Ed's meeting the foxy fireman and finding out he's an ex-ball player? Are we supposed to assume that Ed and the unnamed hunky firefighter will now embark upon a warm, mutually-fulfilling friendship, or a so-wrong-it's-erotic May-December romance? No, I'm afraid not. It seems that nothing will really come of this chance meeting other than the mute exchange of insurance information, muttered apologies, silent humiliation, and mild annoyance. Call me a cynic, but I'm really not seeing the bright side here.

On the linguistic side of things, this article is a slight return to form, filled with unnecessarily awkward turns-of-phrase - "ensconced at the wheel," "sound as a half-dollar," "awaiting the coppers" - that stick out like a sore thumb.

But I can't really rejoice over the Hayes-isms when the central narrative of the column is so plainly tragic. I share in Ed's humiliation over being an old-as-fuck driver whose faculties suddenly abandoned him, but I also feel for the owners of the cars he needlessly plowed into. One minute you are blithely enjoying a walk in the park, the next minute you're having to reassure some old codger whose restless leg syndrome just resulted in your car getting damaged. Add that annoyance the further insult of opening the Sunday paper and realizing that the senile old fart who crashed into your parked car actually wrote an article about how it was all worthwhile for the chance to meet some nice people, and the picture just gets sadder and sadder.

I think I'm going to go to the park and throw some rocks at the windshields of passing cars in an effort to make friends with some decent, friendly folks. That will be sure to cheer me up.