Claudine told me a story the other morning about a guy tailgating her the whole way down one of our town’s long, straight roads. When they came to a traffic light, she walked over to his car and motioned for him to roll down the window. She proceeded to tell him how she’d recently gotten a ticket on this road and that, for his information, she would not be driving any faster than the 30 miles per hour she’d just been doing. She added that she felt this was a reasonable speed to be driving, and intimated that his perilously close proximity wasn’t likely to change her point of view on the matter.
His response? “Well, I guess I’ll just have to do it more then.”
The first (and only) question that came into my mind at that moment was one I’m a little ashamed of. “Was he driving a BMW?” I asked.
Yes. He was.
I’m really sorry about this, but I just have to understand: What is it about BMWs that turn people into colossal a-holes? Is there something protruding from the driver’s seat that becomes somehow embedded into an orifice making it physically and psychically impossible to remain courteous to humanity while on the road?
I live in an affluent town. Lots of people drive Beemers. I know some of them personally and can vouch for their affability terra firma. Does some transformation take place once you step inside the Ultimate Driving Machine? Is there some struggle that goes on between good and evil that a mere mortal cannot hope to overcome?
We talked about what might be the appropriate yogic response. To forgive him his folly? Or to perhaps pity his hurried and harried existence? The Buddha might weep for him, we mused.
But more likely still, the Buddha would giggle – at the fanciful idea that I might consider myself and Mr. BMW as two separate entities in the first place.