the kid in the souped-up truck

So, one of the latest developments on this side of the tracks has been Keegan's dual-enrollment at the local public high school, and subsequent participation in their track ... program. (Hi Keegan! Yes, this post is sort of about you.) This afternoon on my way to work, I dropped him off "at school" (that was weird) for practice, which, naturally enough, begins almost immediately upon the conclusion of the school day.

La de da ... bye, Keegan ... done this before ... only, last time we must have been a little late, because it was with some sudden startlement this time that I found myself and my Vue unwittingly swept up in a teenage mass exodus from the parking lot. After processing my first thought, which was something like: Uurrgghhh, my second thought was to note with lethargic bemusement that, for practically every other living American over the age of fourteen (including, I suppose, most of my few readers), this madness probably was - or had once been - a daily routine. I sure missed out. Baha.

Anyway, as I lurched and poked my stick-shift way into the lineup, just ahead of me a largeish tan pickup of a moderately souped-up nature was (impatiently, I assumed) squeezing its way back out of line, between some parked cars, and zoom! over to the other, less crowded exit some little distance to the right. Jerk, I thought without thinking.

However, every living soul going out of either exit was turning left, because that's where the whole rest of the town lies - and, due to the stop sign almost immediately outside, the traffic jam backed up behind it was (for our little old town) substantial. Ha, I thought when I saw the truck from a moment before, idling behind seventeen other vehicles, So you'd just rather wait on the road than over here, huh?

I lurched ahead a few feet, stopped, and drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. This was one slow line - everyone already on the road was taking full advantage of their advantage, it seemed. Then we started to move, and I looked up, and there was the tan, souped-up truck, stopped with a line of cars behind it, and the driver was flapping his draped-over hand at us. Go ahead, the motion said, go ahead. One car, two cars, three, four pulled out ahead of him. The suburban in front of me took its turn, and the pickup driver flapped his hand at me, too. I waved and smiled, mortified, as I wedged myself into the right lane just in time to escape an oncoming sedan. One more car followed me onto the road, and then the tan pickup took its turn. Did I feel like a worthless slime head? Well, yes, I did.

I don't know who you are, souped-up truck-driving kid, but you're cool. I'm sorry for all the mean-spirited things I was thinking at you before. You didn't deserve it. You're cool, and whether you meant to or not, you shined some goodness into the world this afternoon and made my day a little better. Thanks.