I might write about religious topics from time to time, but please be under no illusions about my level of personal sanctity. I’m very well acquainted with the reptilian part of my brain that seethes with sibilant whispers from the Seven Deadly Sins. Though I’ve never murdered anyone at time of writing, I sometimes spout genocidal utterances when behind the wheel of a car and my sense of humor is very dark. I also like to get even.
There’s an intersection near my house where people blow through red lights all the time. Just a couple of days ago, as I was teaching my daughter to navigate this treacherous stretch of road, a white sports car blasted through the red and almost caused an accident. If my little girl had been in the crosswalk, she would have gotten creamed. But, instead of reflecting on my own vehicular stupidity over the years, the incident left me bubbling with rage. So, I decided to do something about it.
Yesterday, as I was cooling down after a run, I walked up to that problematic intersection and decided to watch the cars go by instead of going home. Sure enough, several ran the red as I stood on the corner and watched. Now incandescent with fury, I took out my cell phone and turned on the camera, capturing a company van as it blasted through the red light like it was a mere suggestion. Now with the van’s license plate, company ID and phone number in hand, I called their main office to complain.
“You know seniors and children cross that street every day,” I said politely, knowing I was on a recorded line. “If one of your driver’s hurts or kills someone, your company is going to get sued for millions.”
“I’m so sorry,” the operator, who sounded like she was in a call center a world away. “We take driver safety very seriously.”
“Please patch me through to a supervisor.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “But before I do, are there any environmental needs we can take care of for you today?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Sorry, sir. Please hold.” After listening to some canned music for a couple of minutes, a supervisor came on the line. “Do you know which van it was?” he asked, sounding bored.
“I can do better than that,” I said. “I have photographic proof that’ll nail your driver dead to rights. Give me an email address.” I swear I head the supervisor catch his breath. Then, after sending the email, I hung up. Of course, the first niggles of guilt began tugging on my soul almost immediately. Would that driver get disciplined? His pay docked or get fired? Did he have a wife and kids who could ill afford to lose the salary his job provided? Part of me knew the company would probably do nothing, dismiss me as a crank, and sweep it under the rug, but what if they really did take it seriously? Oh dear.
“He’s an asshole who deserves what he gets,” the wrathful part of my brain whispered. “He was so hell bent on not getting delayed a minute that he didn’t care what damage he could’ve caused. Fuck him.” Satisfied with my rationalization, I convinced myself I’d done a good deed.
“The police chief told me that state doesn’t allow traffic cameras,” I told my wife later. “But I swear to God, I’m going to camp out on that corner in a lawn chair, take pictures of very shithead who runs the red, shame them on Facebook, and then turn the proof over to the police. How many points do you get on your license for running a red light?”
“I think two,” my wife said.
“Not enough. It should be at least four to make their auto insurance go up. That’s how you stop these people, hit them in the pocketbook.”
“It would make them think twice.”
“And I’ll put up a sign next to the lawn chair that says. ‘Smile! You’re on Candid Camera.’” If my wife had any reservations about me turning into the town weirdo, she didn’t let on.
Of course, I’ve been an asshole driver in the past. When I was twenty-six and late for work, I got pulled over for speeding through a school zone. Just the day before, a child had been struck and killed in that very same spot and, after the cop yelled at me for my reckless stupidity, he gave me a ticket that was so massive that I had to do community service to prevent me from becoming uninsurable. One thing’s for sure, I never did that again – but I still did other stupid shit. It was only when I mellowed with age and had a kid that I started driving like a little old lady.
Looking back on it, that cop not showing me any mercy was a good thing. But then again, it was his job to enforce traffic laws and not mine. Was I right to call that driver’s company? Did I possibly save some unfortunate family from some kind of disaster in the future? One thing’s for sure, however – my daughter probably wouldn’t appreciate me turning into the town nutcase. “Candid Camera?” What was I thinking? But I was still unsettled. “The quality of mercy is not strained,” I thought, recalling the Bard’s words. “It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.” But when is mercy counterproductive and puts others at risk? I don’t know.
Later that night, I escorted my wife to her (Number redacted) high school reunion. Held at a mansion and catered by a topflight outfit, I’d gone to an earlier reunion there five years before and was looking forward to some good food and drink. As we sat under the tent for her class year, two female servers came by our table with tasty hors d’oeuvres and, being a male of the species, I noted that they were both particularly lovely. Then, as we chatted with them, we learned they were a mother/daughter team trying to make extra money. “My son is here too,” the mom, said. “It’s family affair.” When the son came by our table, I noted he was a gorgeous specimen too. “Wow,” I said to my wife. “Some really good genes in that family.”
“Yes,” Annie, said, kind of flustered by the young man’s beauty.
Sitting next to Annie, I watched as she interacted with her classmates and reminisced about the old days. Then, during a lull, I asked her if she wanted to go to the main food tent to get an entrée. As luck would have it, we were the chef’s first customers.
“Hey there!” the cook said. “You want some fucking food?”
“What do you have?” I said, slightly taken aback.
“I’ve got fucking lamb, pulled pork, and steak.” It was then I noticed the chef’s eyes were glassy from either drink, drugs, or some combination of the two. The night had just begun and he was in the bag.
“I’ll have some lamb,” my wife said, laughing at the man’s “exuberance.”
“Coming right up,” he said. “Let me get you a new motherfucking pan.”
Now, I’ve been known to emit profanities from time to time – well, a lot actually – but this man made me nervous. Unfiltered despite children being around, he put me on guard. Having worked in a drug and alcohol treatment centers, I knew such people could be unpredictable and explosive. Then cute waitress mom came by to get something.
“Jesus,” the chef said to me, pointing at her. “Can you believe how hot this woman is? She’s even hotter than her daughter, if such a thing were possible.” Then I watched as server mom stiffened, turned on her heel, and walked away. Yep, this man’s lizard brain was on display for all to see. Knowing that this guy was probably a nasty drunk, I kept silent. Like most of the beautiful waitresses I’ve worked with over the years, I was sure server mom was more than capable of handling herself. I might’ve found this woman was alluring too, but this man’s drunken and offensive comments really pissed me off. Then I almost punched him.
“Here you are,” the chef said, handing my wife her plate.
“Thank you,” I said.
“My name’s (Redacted) he said, putting out his hand. I took it but, because I didn’t want him to see the anger in my eyes, I didn’t look at him.
“Look at a man when you shake his motherfucking hand!” the man bellowed, increasing his grip.
My left hand balling into a fist, I thought about delivering a strike just below the man’s right ear where the jawbone meets. Lots of nerves join up there but, in addition to having to get a lawyer, that’d be a good way not to get invited back to the next reunion. But I also knew if this man needed to get that pickled so fast and acted this way in public, then he was in a lot of pain. “Thank you for correcting me,” I said, trying to look meek. “Have a good night.”
A little later, after I discussed my fleeting violent impulse, I told my wife, “That’s not the first time I’ve let myself look weak to avoid a fight.”
“He’s a jerk,” she said.
“That guy’s around my age,” I said. “And still getting blasted like he’s in college?” Then I told him what he said about server mom. “Ew,” Annie said, shivering. “Gross.”
I haven’t hauled off and hit a guy since high school and that’s a record I hope to maintain. Besides, there’s no honor in mixing it up with a drunk guy whose coordination is shot to shit. But if I laid him out flat, would he have learned a lesson? Probably not, but one thing’s for sure, eventually he’ll run into someone far less merciful than me. Shaking the incident off, I went back to enjoying the party. Since I’m hard of hearing, however, that was easier said than done.
Unable to follow conversations in loud places, I found myself feeing very isolated and, as the raucous noise from the live rock band pounded my cranium, I excused myself to find some peace and quiet. Walking into the mansion, I made my way to the front porch on the other side of the house, far from the madding crowd. And there, sitting on the patio, was server mom taking a break. “Mind if I join you?” I said, pointing to any empty chair.
“Please,” she said, smiling. Then we began to talk.
As we chatted, I learned sever mom was a special education teacher with a master’s degree by day and worked for the catering company by night to support herself after an economically disastrous divorce. Because her kids all had day jobs while struggling with insane school loans and housing costs, they worked with her too. “My daughter’s thirty-one and still lives with me,” she said. “Same with one of my sons.”
“Your daughter’s only thirty-one?” I said, astonished. “She looks like she’s twenty.”
“Hard to believe but true,” the mom said. She must’ve had her kids very young.
“My daughter’s almost eleven,” I said. “Way things are going now, she’ll never move out.”
“It’s hard out there.”
“You like working for this caterer?”
“Oh,” Server Mom, said. “Marjorie’s a dream to work for. She’s fair, pays well, and her food’s very good.”
“Good,” I said. “I was in the restaurant business for a while and worked for some jerks.”
“Then,” she said with a sad smile, “You know how hard this job can be.” Was she referring to how that drunk chef treated her and her daughter like a Letter to Penthouse? I decided not to press.
“Indeed, I do.” I said instead.
Chatting under the moonlight, I found myself basking in this woman’s beauty. Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife but, when you are fortunate to encounter such people, it’s a reminder that God created the world for us to be happy. During this brief exchange, this small moment of connection, I also got a glimpse of server mom’s inner beauty as well. Working with emotionally disturbed kids during the day, she was more than just a server with a pretty face,
“I’ve got to get back to my wife,” I said, getting up. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
‘You too.”
“Where did you go?” my wife said, when I found her.
“Just needed to clear my head.”
“Ready to go home? I’m done with this place.”
“Show the way.”
Between getting cancer and my dad dying, my tolerance level with assholes is at an all-time low. Later, as I brushed my teeth before bed, I thought about how I handled the day’s anger over two different jerks in two different ways. What kept me from slugging that chef was the knowledge he was a tortured soul – but I had no idea what the driver of that van was going through. Perhaps mercy is all about connection, knowing a little bit about people like server mom before putting yourself in a place to pass judgment. Did I get things right today or wrong? I don’t know but, as I looked at myself in the mirror, I remembered I was just a sinner like everyone else.
“But mercy is above this sceptred sway;” I thought to myself. “It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God’s, When mercy seasons justice.”
Putting my scepter away for the night, I went to bed.
