Motorist outreach

We live in unsettling times. In the United States, the illusion of social evolution and increasing enlightenment was stripped away in 2016. As necessary as that was, to reveal the barely buried reality, it also constantly eats away at any kind of peace of mind or confidence.

Is there something you don't like? Attack it openly. It's okay now. Yell racial slurs. Refuse service to gay people. Practice random acts of meanness.

Under the heading of random acts of meanness, a motorist coming the other way on Elm Street gave a friendly, tootly, attention-seeking horn honk. When I lifted my hand to wave and turned my head, thinking that it might be someone I know, an unfamiliar bearded face extruded itself out the driver's side window above an outthrust middle finger.

Suckered into looking right at Finger Boy's insulting gesture, I responded with the universal WTF shrug: an expansive, palm-up gesture indicating that I see the juvenile overture, and I dismiss it. Still, I kicked myself for looking at all. The best response would have been to let him wave his finger at the side of my head as I ignored him completely.

Over the years I have fallen firmly into the habit of never looking directly at or into a motor vehicle. Friends occasionally wonder why I did not respond to a wave, but most of them understand, once I explain. I use my eyes defensively, in combat mode, not socially.

There's little point in making eye contact with motorists, despite what you may have read or heard. I don't want to know what they're thinking. I monitor their vehicles as potentially dangerous lumps moving, about to move, or likely to stop, depending on what might be most inconvenient. I try as much as possible to be emotionless.

Peripheral vision is better at detecting motion than your direct focused gaze is. You can learn to turn most of your field of vision into peripheral vision by letting your focus shift out into the classic thousand yard stare. I look at the road in front of me, scanning for small hazards like glass, metal, broken pavement, or chunks of blown tire that drop little pieces of wire from their reinforcing belts. I take snapshots of vehicles, noting make, model, color, and license plate. I don't retain the memory unless something makes me focus on it. For instance, Finger Boy's car looked like a 1980s Renault Alliance, white or pale blue. It had New Hampshire tags.

Even if there's an incident, it's hard to remember all the details. And without facial ID of the driver it's all worthless anyway, because police won't prosecute. So really, driving as if you're among computer generated characters in a game works just as well. We're all just matter in motion, trying to avoid collision. Most of us are trying to avoid it, anyway.