Terrible Analogies

I was sitting my cubicle at work coding a project when my phone rang.  This was the strange conversation I had:

Me: “This is HermanTurnip”

Voice: “You really should roll up your windows.”

Me: “Excuse me?”

Voice: “I see your car every day in the parking lot with its windows rolled down a crack.  You should roll them up.”

Me: “Why?”

Voice: “Snakes.”

Me: “Snakes?”

Voice: “Yes.  Snakes like to crawl through open car windows.  It’s a known fact.”

Me: “It is?  Who is this?”

Voice: *click*

Not only do I not know who I just had this strange conversation with, I had never heard that snakes have a penchant for cars with open windows.  I’ve lived in Southern California my entire life and am well aware of the snake population (and am on a first name basis with a few), but at no point has anyone ever warned me about this “snakes like cars” phenomena.

Am I missing something, or has this mystery person been sniffing too many office highlighters?

While picking up a case of Black & Tan from BevMo!’s refrigerated section this weekend I heard a dark gruff of a whisper behind me say, “That’s what Michael used to drink.”

Turning around I saw an older gentleman who looked like he was in his late 50′s and heavily tattooed from chin to wrists.  Well over 6′ tall, he had musical bars and notes inked around his neck, stars under his eyes, and a mermaid peeking out from under the collar of his blue t-shirt.  His forearms were completely covered in various shapes and shades.  Short-cropped gray hair and facial stubble framed a face with deep-set wrinkles betraying years of both heavy laughter and much furrowing.

I asked, “What’s that?”, not quite sure I heard him correctly.

“B&T,” he said with a voice that sounded like he gargled tacks every night before bed, “That’s what Michael used to drink.”

“Michael?” I asked, noting that he was wearing what looked like bermuda shorts, and that his legs were tattooed as well.

“Yeah, Michael and Al.  Well, that and plenty of other things.  Other guys, they’d be more up for some of that harder stuff.  The stuff you can’t drink.  Made me get it for ‘em, too.”

I wasn’t quite sure just how to respond.  ”Really?” was the best feeble response I could muster, but I’m not sure if he heard me.  If he did then he must not have felt like replying.  He instead put a huge left paw of a hand on my shoulder and gently pushed me out of the way so he could look at the various makes of beer behind the frosted glass.  I wasn’t sure how to interpret this gesture, but it didn’t feel like a violent act.  I figured I didn’t want to get into it with this guy, so I blew it off and began to make my way towards the cashier.

And this guy followed me.

“Okay,” I’m thinking, “I’ll just make my way to the front, calmly put my beer down in front of the clerk, and hope that this guy’s not tweaking on anything.”

I approached the register and placed my 6-pack of beer on the counter, and the tattooed monster behind me calmly pushes my beer up a bit and places down an identical 6-pack of Black & Tan with an authoritative “Thump!”.  The letters tattooed on the fingers of his left hand spelled out “roll”.

I look up at the guy and he’s staring down at me with a weird vacant expression, like I wasn’t worth looking at.  Just another thing in front of him.  I’m now beginning to worry a bit.

I paid for my beer and walked out the exit without looking back.  Opening the door to my Toyota FJ I place the beer on the floorboard on the passenger side.  Closing the door and turning around I see a brand new silver Mercedes Benz G-class SUV pull up behind my truck.  It stops.  The tinted passenger window slowly rolls down and inside is the giant inked up behemoth.  He raises his right hand, forms it into a pair of devil horns and says, “Rock on,” in a deep, gravely voice.  He then smiled and drove away.

Like a stunned fool I waved back.

As I write this I’m still trying to comprehend it all. 20/20 hindsight makes me question what really went down. Was this guy messing with me? Did I know him from somewhere, or did he know me? To say that it was a surreal encounter would be like saying that Hieronymus Bosch was a boring painter. I’m sure I’ll figure it all out someday…

While inching my way home this afternoon on a busy local freeway I noticed a man standing in the median between the slow lane and a crowded onramp hold both arms extended with thumbs up.  Desperate for a ride, his squinting eyes furtively scanned the faces of each driver as they passed by, hoping his desperate, animated pleas for a ride would convince a good citizen to stop and pick him up.

As I slowly approached this roadside apparition, two cop cars sped by me in the emergency lane with lights flashing and sirens wailing before finally coming to a screeching halt in front of the hitchhiker.  They quickly emerged from their vehicles with guns drawn and began barking orders.  In my rearview mirror I could see the man on his stomach with both cops pinning him to the ground.

I’m unsure if this guy had just committed a crime and was trying to get away, but that was an unusual and highly dangerous location to be thumbing a ride from.

If nothing else, it was a surreal way to end a busy work day

While driving home this afternoon I witnessed a car accident on the freeway.  I was traveling 70mph in the number two lane.  A white BMW passed me going roughly 75 and was now about 30 feet in front of me in the fast (left hand) lane.  Ahead of us was an ocean of red brake lights.  Seeing this, everyone began to put on their brakes, slowing down to 55.  From my left a white Pontiac Grand Prix screamed past easily doing 90mph+, and slammed right into the rear end of the BMW like a computer-guided three ton sidewinder missile.  I didn’t see any hint of this Pontiac slowing down, nor hear any squeal from its tires.

It’s amazing what a car crash sounds like up close.  It’s difficult to appreciate the subtle nuances of the entire violent act without intimate firsthand experience.  The ugly crunch of metal, the spray of glass, the slowing down of time…it’s almost surrealistic, like you’re watching a movie; it seems strangely removed and far too real to be real.

I’m no stranger to shocking misfortunes.  I myself have been in a horrible car crash, and nearly lost my life rock climbing in Joshua Tree during a winter snowstorm, but these are distant memories.  I’d forgotten how the mind processes traumatic events.

The front of the Pontiac was crushed like a dirty pair of jeans balled up on the bathroom floor, paint flaked off the hood in large sheets exposing the dull metal beneath, and the front tires were splayed out like a tawdry centerfold pose.  The front windshield looked like somebody took an angry baseball bat to it.  I could see a smooth splash of blood on the opposite side of the glass.  From the impact, the BMW was thrust straight forward about 200 feet, but surprisingly it didn’t suffer nearly the amount of damage that the Pontiac has sustained.  The back bumper was pushed into the trunk, and something was leaking out from underneath, leaving behind a jagged liquid trail on the grooved pavement.

If I had left work a minute sooner (or later), and had chosen the fast lane instead of the number two lane, that BMW could have been me.  It’s crazy how fate/destiny/luck works.  With so many possible “what ifs”, one could go loopy thinking about such things.

The parents-in-law, who reside in Wisconsin, bought us a brand new Craftsman tool chest last week, sending us a note that we can pick it up at our local Sears.  Taken aback by this unexpected gift (for which I really can’t thank you enough), I took a few minutes to look up the dimensions of this massive hunk of hardware and, after running the numbers, convinced myself that it would fit in Karin’s car.

This past weekend we drove down to Sears, made our way to the ‘Pick-Up’ warehouse, and turned in our claim ticket.  A few minutes later two guys emerged pushing dollies with our new storage solution.  The smaller top box easily fit into our truck, but the larger bottom piece wouldn’t quite fit into the back seat even after removing it from the box.  We were stumped, unsure what our next move was going to be.  Then, quite unexpectedly,  I heard a voice behind me say, “How far away do you live?”

Turning around I saw a man in his 60′s standing in the bed of his Ford F-150, with what I assumed was his grandson standing alongside him.  ”We’re about ten minutes away,” I said.  ”Well, load it on up here.  I’ll be more than happy to follow you home,” he replied with a smile.  After a couple of minutes of chat to size the guy up to see where his intentions lied, we decided to take him up on his offer.  Sure enough, he followed us home, then shook our hands and refused any sort of payment.  We even tried to get his address to send him a Christmas card, but he said that wasn’t necessary.  ”Well then, I’ll pay it forward,” I told him.  With that and a final wave he drove away.

With this one unselfish act my faith in humanity has been restored.  Thanks to the kindness of one individual, I’ve been reassured that not everybody out there is in it strictly for themselves.  Thank you, kind stranger.