The rich bastards have had us by the balls since Ronald Reagan got elected in 1980. This country has been going down hill for 30 years now. Since the Second Bush stole the election in 2000, I and my family have made it our tradition to leave the US for the Fourth of July. One as a protest to our bungling ineptitude as an imperial power and secondly for our own safety. Normally we visit my wife Shirley’s cousin in Canada. This year we decided to go to Yosemite California, undoubtedly the last of a half of dozen natural wonders left in California. We’d been on the road for maybe four hours, twenty miles outside of Mariposa, one of those pickup and shotgun towns that like the rest of the US had deteriorated into a facade of whatever made it a pleasant place once.
Highway 140 is a two lane highway that winds its way up the Sierras from Maneteka, once the artichoke capital of the world, perhaps still is. Now it is also filled with empty subdivisions, perhaps many square miles of them left over from the great real estate crash of 2008. I knew the real estate market was gonna bust in 2007. Our Mexican maid quit us to buy a house in Tracy. The writing was on the wall.
140 is a divided highway and quite beautiful. I had remembered coming the other way with my older sister when I first moved to California from Kansas in 1976. Then I was loaded on grass and cocaine. My sister had a Toyota I think it was. She said she was concerned about my pot smoking and driving. I told her I was snorting coke also and not to worry. In those days this kind of thinking made sense. Those days are gone.
Thinking of July 3rd, 2010 when a vigilante took it upon himself to wave me over, the most surprising thing for me is how calm I was… as if being waved over by a raging white vigilante in a white pickup truck with a few two by fours is nothing out of the ordinary. My wife and daughter had noticed him first but said nothing. The highway had widened to two lanes for maybe 300 yards. At one time the left lane was used as a passing line. The drive to Yosemite is steep and windy. Some automobiles and trucks just don’t have what it takes to go 40 miles per hour up the side of a mountain. I was in the right lane and had not noticed the white pickup to my left. When driving windy roads I usually keep eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel. One must not be too distracted. Out of the peripheral of my vision I see a white guy waving at me. I figure he was passing, wondered how long he was there, why he didn’t pass but mostly why he was waving at me. He was maintaining speed with me which I found unusual for passing. I thought of maintaining my speed to piss the guy off some but decided to slow down to let him pass. He slowed down also and continues waving at me. I figured the side panel of my car had fallen off and this was a kind citizen concerned for my safety. I pulled over where I could. He stopped ahead of me and walked back to my car. I was bit concerned now. The man looked a bit upset — maybe 35, bald, six foot, 200 pounds. In another country or in a different decade it may have been nothing to fear. I rolled the driver window down a bit in the Lexus. Caution was definitely advisable. That was one of the only things the second Bush and his thugs were right about. The terrorists were in our midst. We were the terrorists.
The vigilante skipped the introductions and went right to his concern. “You know you ran into the shoulder of the highway five times back there?”
I corrected him. “No it was two and what concern…”
“How much have you been drinking?”
“I haven’t had anything to drink and resent the accusation.”
“You know you almost ran me off the road back there”
I was simply on automatic response at this time. I’d never rehearsed how I would respond to a vigilante before.
“Why exactly are you interested in my driving?” I asked the guy.
“I’m a concerned citizen”
“Well let me tell you what my concern is. I’ve got an angry guy at my car window accusing me of drinking alcohol and in an obvious rage. I suggest you go back to your car. Then either you leave first or I will.”
This shut him down. Shirley told me later she thought he wanted me to get out of the car and fight… something I tend to avoid. I think he was truthful — he was a concerned citizen.
The guy got in his pickup and drove on.
We drove into Mariposa and pulled into our motel. Apparently the vigilante had called 911 to report a drunk driver on the road. A cop rolled into the parking lot. All three of us had already gotten out of the car. I was sitting down in one of the lounge chairs. I was wearing shorts and a poker cards Hawaiian shirt and sun glasses. The cop asked me if I had been drinking. I straightened up a bit and said you know I’d like to file a complaint about some idiot that pulled me over on the highway. I paused, I forget what the cop said but continued my line of thought. You must know who the guy is. He must have called 911. The cop than became apparently irritated and said, look I’m the one that is going to ask the questions. You’re about this close from me taking you downtown. My sister later joked that I should have told him I thought we were downtown what with it being a small town and all. I realized my situation was different with this cop than the vigilante. “Of course, you’re right officer. What questions do you have.” He had me stand up and have my eyes follow his pen as he waved it. He asked me to walk over to the car. I did. I was pacing a bit and the cop asked me to stop and I did. He mentioned the guy said I had ran onto the shoulder five times. I said I did it twice and that I really didn’t like hitting the shoulder. I told him the highways were windy and I hadn’t driven them in a long time. All true. He seemed satisfied walking away. This is when my wife jumped in. She was a bit peeved herself, said if the guy had any concerns about my driving he should have called 911 but pulling us over was over the line. I considered trying to pursue the matter but in my mind I thought it wasn’t worth the trouble.
