Signs and Portents

I’ve been driving for over 40 years.  In all that time, I’ve never had an accident and have received only two tickets, both for speeding; one at 16, the other at 18.

I’ve been driving when cars crashed in front of me and behind me, when big trucks jackknifed and small trucks lost their loads, when pieces of wood bounced on the pavement and smashed against my windshield, when drivers inexplicably stopped in front of me on highways and nearly caused catastrophes.  I’ve had several near-miss collisions (never my fault) and have driven through speed traps going well in excess of the limit, all with no consequences.  As a result, I’ve developed an unrealistic sense of my own security.

Sometimes I park my car downtown in one of those tall garages with tight, circular ramps.  I like to gun the engine all the way up to the roof and then go even faster on the way down.  On more than one occasion I’ve repeated this several times in a row.  I wonder what the garage staff thinks of this; I’m sure they’ve seen me.

I’ve been to Los Angeles at least 50 times over the last 25 years; so often, in fact, that a friend calls me “Mr. LA.”  It’s a city I know well.  On each trip after I deplane at LAX, I head to the car rental counter and, because I’m cheap, get the economy model.  Usually they assign me a Kia Optima, a Korean car that’s small and fast with great maneuverability.  KIA, by the way, is an acronym used by the American military.  It means Killed In Action.

On almost every trip, I make it a goal to drive the Pacific Coast Highway up to Point Dume, especially at night.  That experience helps restore my equalibrium and equanimity.  After 10pm, the PCH is deserted. The moon casts a silver line on the ocean; the stars glow brightly in the sky.  I roll down the windows and drive 60, 70, 80 miles per hour; there’s no sound except for the humming motor and the wind that whips through the car.  It’s like therapy for me; it helps me relax and evaluate my life.

Sometimes I head up into the mountains.  Malibu Canyon Road has tight curves and steep cliffs that drop to rocks below.  In the daytime, I can open up the engine and navigate the turns pretty well; at night the road is dark so it takes a little more finesse and a lot less speed.  I’m never reckless when I drive but I admit to sometimes driving faster than maybe what a prudent person should do.

A few years ago I was going through a difficult, unhappy period so I escaped for four days to LA to unwind and get some distance from the situation.  As I was driving my Korean death machine, I headed south on Coldwater Canyon, down-shifting along the winding mountain road.  Around a bend there was a thick plume of white smoke billowing high into the sky.  Driving closer, I saw a car on fire — the intensity of which had burned and melted the car almost down to its wheels.  The fire department was on the scene putting out the blaze, yet it was a shocking image, terrifying and mesmerizing.

I have an acquaintance who sees every unusual image as a sign from God.  She thinks God regularly speaks to her through signs.  When I saw the burning car, I wondered if this was a metaphor for my situation at the time.  Was it a sign?  Was my life about to explode in flames?  But if it was a sign, then from whom and what did it mean?  Or perhaps it wasn’t a sign at all, just a random event – and yet, why did it appear to me at this particular time and place?

I’m reminded of the work of John Chamberlain.  Chamberlain was a sculptor who assembled crashed and crushed automobile parts into interesting shapes.  I’m sure he pilfered car parts from the scenes of many a wreck.  I find his sculptures to be lyrical, beautiful, colorful and poetic, but I can’t look at his art and not think of death.  In his sculptures, I imagine some poor soul with a mangled body being cut from his car with the Jaws of Life.

A few days after the burning car incident, I was sitting in LAX waiting for my plane to depart.  I looked high up into the atrium and saw a bird perched on a ledge next to a window, trapped inside, tapping its beak on the glass in a futile effort to escape.

Some people see images and think they are signs from heaven or portents of things to come.  I’m not sure what I think of signs.  But I am sure I like the art of John Chamberlain.  I do know I was able to work myself out of my poor mental state.  My life didn’t explode in flames.  I continue to travel frequently to LA.  And whenever I can, I still drive fast on the PCH.