That Accidental Feeling

It’s right in the pit of my gut. That’s where it starts, anyway. A warm, frantic, emphatic something. Then, really fast, it spreads out to the rest of my body. My heart speeds up, my focus sharpens, and sweat finds its way out of what has to be every pore on my skin. So far I’ve found only two things that can cause this wonderful, horrible feeling. Getting in a car accident (or almost getting into a car accident) and getting pulled over by an officer of the law (or almost getting pulled over).

“Ohboyohboyohboy, I almost hit that semi.” Or, “Ohnoohnoohno, that cop’s lights just popped on and he pulled out. Is he after me? How fast am I going? I’m not going that fast. Other people were passing me. Ohno. Yep. He’s right behind me. I’d better pull - phew. He’s going after someone up there. Yeah, I knew I was okay. Other people were passing me.” And it’s right there, that magnificent natural high found almost exclusively in the face of vehicular danger. I suppose it’s adrenaline, and the feeling is some cross between or combination of fear and excitement.

I made the mistake of telling Lindsay I liked it.

This does not mean, as I had to repeatedly assure her, that I want to total our car. Nor does it indicate that I like getting speeding tickets (I kicked that habit back in college). It doesn’t even mean that I would seek out the feeling. Just that when it happens, I like to enjoy it. To realize that it’s rare and should be savored as an unsought but delightful experience, like when you happen to witness a dog running headlong into a screen door he doesn’t think is there.

But I’m pretty sure Lindsay gets the feeling now. The other day some moron (this is the technical term for anyone piloting a car you are not in) cut across several lanes of traffic at a tool booth plaza, right in front of Lindsay. Lindsay slammed on her brakes. There was a quickening of heart rate. Sharpened focus. And sweat from pores. (But don’t worry; no injuries.)

And you know what? I’m not sure Lindsay disliked the feeling...

I Am Not a Car

Most of the major metropolitan areas on the North American continent are driving communities. Places where most people must drive a car or car-esque vehicle several times in the course of their daily routines. New York City is not one of these places. You can live here* and without much effort never have to pilot a car again. Cabs, buses, subways, and commuter trains make it unnecessary to have a car in every garage. And that’s assuming you have a garage. Which you probably don’t.

But I straddle the two worlds. My wife Lindsay drives to work farther into the Garden State. I work at home or take public transportation under a large river and into the former New Amsterdam. On weekends, though, we have the freedom to choose the PATH train (a subway that runs between Jersey and Manhattan) or our car. And if we go somewhere in our car, I drive.

Switching back and forth can be taxing. Sometimes, after a weekend of driving, a Monday morning walk along a sidewalk with the flow of traffic (yep, walking traffic; city sidewalks are pedestrian highways - believe it) will find my reflexes still thinking I’m behind the wheel. When I want to look behind me, I don’t turn around. Instead I glance a little to the right and a bit upward to the spot where my misguided brain thinks there will be a rearview mirror. I am genuinely perplexed when my eyes find at best blank space and at worst a suspicious passerby. I’ve also caught myself dropping my gaze to a person’s hindquarters to see what State this tourist is from and why in the Samuel J. Hill she’s walking so freaking slowly and zigzagging (is she doing it on purpose?) back and forth when I’m clearly trying to pass her because I’m already seven and a half minutes late to work?!

But of course there is no license plate on her bumper, because she is not a car. She is a person. A slow, clueless person. Probably from Jersey.



*Yes, that’s right. I claim to live in NYC. Maybe you’re calling foul, rightly pointing out that my address clearly states Jersey City, New Jersey. Seriously, you insist, “Jersey” is in there twice. Yes, it is. But we live four blocks from the Hudson River. We’re at least five times closer to Manhattan than we were when we lived in Queens. It’s practically another borough and I’m counting it. While we’re on the subject, where do you live, gentle reader? Chicago? St. Louis? Los Angeles? Or is it Wheaton, Columbia, IL, or Pasadena? That’s what I thought.