Gun Mime
I lived in rural central Virginia , Greene County
That particular day, I was visiting a service junk yard on Route 29 just south of Ruckersville so that I could get my car inspected. My son was enjoying the time wandering around the car junks while the stringy-haired, toothless, addict-built, and soiled mechanic inspected my Isuzu Trooper.
With mission accomplished and the Trooper ready to roll, I approached the Route 29 intersection. I stopped, of course, and checked for on-coming traffic. It's a tough place to pull out of because there is a hill to your left that obstructs your view in that direction. So when I pulled into the clear right lane in my amazingly under-powered Trooper, a Ford F-150 pick-up came zooming over the hill behind me. He was flying faster than I thought it possible for such a vehicle to go. In a moment he was on my bumper and had to swerve around me.
When I saw this drama play out in my rear-view mirror and then pass by me, I was frightened for my son and me. I also felt horrible that I had impeded this guy's speeding. So I apologized to the air as he zipped past me.
Within a mile, I approached the Rt 33/Rt 29 stoplight in Ruckersville. I was glad to see the Ford stopped at the light in the right lane. I thought I might just give the country wave gesture and mouth an apology to the guy in the truck. So I pulled alongside the truck. We were the only two vehicles stopped at that moment (a rare event today).
So causally, as people do in the country, I turned my head and looked across my Trooper's cab and past my son who was once again riding shotgun with me up front. Just over my son's blonde hair, my eyes made contact with the driver of the Ford, and I was about to give the friendly gesture and apology when he glared at me, then reached down. A moment later, he had a pistol aimed squarely at my son and, I suppose, me, too. He held the pistol stock still, glaring. With a molasses mouth, slowly so I could read his lips, he mouthed, "Y-o-u'-r-e d-e-a-d." Then, convincingly, he mimed blowing us away. I instinctively leaned over to cover my son.
At that moment, the light changed, and the gun mime zoomed away. My anemic Trooper was no match for his strong push off the starting line, and quite frankly, I was really too shook-up to follow. I sat there at that light for a few seconds trying to gather my thoughts. I was torn between thanking God for sparing us and cursing that guy, wishing he'd meet a painful death.
We went home. My son was oblivious to the experience while I lost a little of my youthful blind faith in humanity. The thing that I've noticed about that blind faith in humanity these many years later is that once you loose a bit of it, you never get it back. I've come to believe that the secret to avoiding bitterness in life is to somehow navigate the mime field while guns are pointed at you by wearing a shield of invulnerable invisibility.
That particular day, I was visiting a service junk yard on Route 29 just south of Ruckersville so that I could get my car inspected. My son was enjoying the time wandering around the car junks while the stringy-haired, toothless, addict-built, and soiled mechanic inspected my Isuzu Trooper.
With mission accomplished and the Trooper ready to roll, I approached the Route 29 intersection. I stopped, of course, and checked for on-coming traffic. It's a tough place to pull out of because there is a hill to your left that obstructs your view in that direction. So when I pulled into the clear right lane in my amazingly under-powered Trooper, a Ford F-150 pick-up came zooming over the hill behind me. He was flying faster than I thought it possible for such a vehicle to go. In a moment he was on my bumper and had to swerve around me.
When I saw this drama play out in my rear-view mirror and then pass by me, I was frightened for my son and me. I also felt horrible that I had impeded this guy's speeding. So I apologized to the air as he zipped past me.
Within a mile, I approached the Rt 33/Rt 29 stoplight in Ruckersville. I was glad to see the Ford stopped at the light in the right lane. I thought I might just give the country wave gesture and mouth an apology to the guy in the truck. So I pulled alongside the truck. We were the only two vehicles stopped at that moment (a rare event today).
So causally, as people do in the country, I turned my head and looked across my Trooper's cab and past my son who was once again riding shotgun with me up front. Just over my son's blonde hair, my eyes made contact with the driver of the Ford, and I was about to give the friendly gesture and apology when he glared at me, then reached down. A moment later, he had a pistol aimed squarely at my son and, I suppose, me, too. He held the pistol stock still, glaring. With a molasses mouth, slowly so I could read his lips, he mouthed, "Y-o-u'-r-e d-e-a-d." Then, convincingly, he mimed blowing us away. I instinctively leaned over to cover my son.
At that moment, the light changed, and the gun mime zoomed away. My anemic Trooper was no match for his strong push off the starting line, and quite frankly, I was really too shook-up to follow. I sat there at that light for a few seconds trying to gather my thoughts. I was torn between thanking God for sparing us and cursing that guy, wishing he'd meet a painful death.
We went home. My son was oblivious to the experience while I lost a little of my youthful blind faith in humanity. The thing that I've noticed about that blind faith in humanity these many years later is that once you loose a bit of it, you never get it back. I've come to believe that the secret to avoiding bitterness in life is to somehow navigate the mime field while guns are pointed at you by wearing a shield of invulnerable invisibility.
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