Read Online American Purgatorio by John Haskell - Free Book Online
Authors: John Haskell
Tags: Contemporary, Adult
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valley, and he was saying something, but I was unable or unwilling to hear what it was until he began commenting on my old maroon car, casually mentioning that, while he wasnât totally sure, he was pretty sure heâd seen a plum-colored car back at the rest area, a station wagon, and he knew there must be a million station wagons painted in some shade of red, but â¦
That was enough for me. Even the slightest hint of Anne would have been enough, and I immediately turned around. I should say I wanted to turn around, but because we were driving on a divided interstate highway there was no opportunity to turn around. There was no exit. It was one-way as far as we could see and I kept driving, for miles, expecting to come to an off-ramp or a turnoff, and mile after mile of trees and more trees but no turnoffs. I was mad at Alex and mad at myself and mad at the interstate highway commission. It was doubly frustrating because I could see, just across the grassy median, the road I wanted.
But I couldnât get to that road. I was separated from that road or the direction the road implied, waiting for an exit, hoping an exit would suddenly appear, and when none did, I started to go slightly crazy. I was already in the left-hand lane, and when I couldnât stand the frustration any longer, I veered farther left, off the highway and onto the asphalt part of the median. Alex was holding on to the dashboard as I started driving down the bumpy grass slope, and it was bumpy, so I drove slowly, down one side, and carefully, at an angle, across the gully and then up the other side. I was heading in the opposite direction now, waiting at the border of the grass for a chance to pull into the traffic flow when, just as that chance was about to present itself, a car pulled up, a state trooper car with a flashing light. It stopped in front of my car, blocking access to the highway, and a man with high boots walked over.
I tried to explain to him that this wasnât a very good time. âIâm sorry,â I said, and I told him that I knew Iâd committed a traffic violation but that I was in the middle of an emergency. I tried to reason with the man, to placate his desire to enforce the law, but that wasnât good enough. It seemed this particular trooper was either a tough guy, or acting like a tough guy, and when he told me to get out of the car thatâs when the struggle really started.
I wanted to decide what was going to happen, and the trooper also wanted to decide what would happen, and initiated by some commentâor some nonverbal aspect of that commentâI felt myself pushed to the point where the choices in my mind were reduced to either surrendering to this unjust power or doing something stupid. And what I did was, I held my hand in the shape of a gunâindex finger forward, thumb pointing upâand I pretended to aim this imaginary gun at the trooper, who with unexpected force threw me against the side of my car and locked my wrists in handcuffs.
And I say thank god for anger because, although itâs good for giving a sense of protection, itâs also good for changing things, or breaking through things. The power struggle had now become physical, and even though I was bound by the handcuffs I was ready to get physical. Alex, still sitting in the car, was peacefully trying to explain the situation, but the trooper wasnât listening. It was his situation and his control, and since anger is a by-product of lack of control, and since I had nothing if not lack of control, the anger that had been smoldering in me started burning. Even with my face pressed into the metal of the squad car, the adrenaline flowing in my blood felt liberating. Of course when I attempted to enact that liberation by pulling my hands apart I only pulled the handcuffs tighter, and while my liberation was in this way thwarted, my anger wasnât.
And again, I didnât think about what I did next, I
That was enough for me. Even the slightest hint of Anne would have been enough, and I immediately turned around. I should say I wanted to turn around, but because we were driving on a divided interstate highway there was no opportunity to turn around. There was no exit. It was one-way as far as we could see and I kept driving, for miles, expecting to come to an off-ramp or a turnoff, and mile after mile of trees and more trees but no turnoffs. I was mad at Alex and mad at myself and mad at the interstate highway commission. It was doubly frustrating because I could see, just across the grassy median, the road I wanted.
But I couldnât get to that road. I was separated from that road or the direction the road implied, waiting for an exit, hoping an exit would suddenly appear, and when none did, I started to go slightly crazy. I was already in the left-hand lane, and when I couldnât stand the frustration any longer, I veered farther left, off the highway and onto the asphalt part of the median. Alex was holding on to the dashboard as I started driving down the bumpy grass slope, and it was bumpy, so I drove slowly, down one side, and carefully, at an angle, across the gully and then up the other side. I was heading in the opposite direction now, waiting at the border of the grass for a chance to pull into the traffic flow when, just as that chance was about to present itself, a car pulled up, a state trooper car with a flashing light. It stopped in front of my car, blocking access to the highway, and a man with high boots walked over.
I tried to explain to him that this wasnât a very good time. âIâm sorry,â I said, and I told him that I knew Iâd committed a traffic violation but that I was in the middle of an emergency. I tried to reason with the man, to placate his desire to enforce the law, but that wasnât good enough. It seemed this particular trooper was either a tough guy, or acting like a tough guy, and when he told me to get out of the car thatâs when the struggle really started.
I wanted to decide what was going to happen, and the trooper also wanted to decide what would happen, and initiated by some commentâor some nonverbal aspect of that commentâI felt myself pushed to the point where the choices in my mind were reduced to either surrendering to this unjust power or doing something stupid. And what I did was, I held my hand in the shape of a gunâindex finger forward, thumb pointing upâand I pretended to aim this imaginary gun at the trooper, who with unexpected force threw me against the side of my car and locked my wrists in handcuffs.
And I say thank god for anger because, although itâs good for giving a sense of protection, itâs also good for changing things, or breaking through things. The power struggle had now become physical, and even though I was bound by the handcuffs I was ready to get physical. Alex, still sitting in the car, was peacefully trying to explain the situation, but the trooper wasnât listening. It was his situation and his control, and since anger is a by-product of lack of control, and since I had nothing if not lack of control, the anger that had been smoldering in me started burning. Even with my face pressed into the metal of the squad car, the adrenaline flowing in my blood felt liberating. Of course when I attempted to enact that liberation by pulling my hands apart I only pulled the handcuffs tighter, and while my liberation was in this way thwarted, my anger wasnât.
And again, I didnât think about what I did next, I
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