Trigesimus Septimus Gradus

Mel felt his fingers begin to slip over the steering wheel. He tightened his grip and gave it a slight turn, allowing the car to slow a few miles per hour around a gentle curve. As he mouthed the words to a song, hiding his voice from his ears, he noticed the tight line of trees on either side of the road. They were split intermittently with cracked, pitted driveways in no better condition than the shoulder of the road itself. A driver like Mel could better discern the lanes by deep channels along their borders than by the road commission’s worn paint marks.

Rhythmic eyes bouncing back and forth across the windshield, Mel took note of the cold-looking clouds up above. They were bright, but in a gray kind of way, as if they could burst into sunshine or downpour in the same instant. 

A soft movement caught Mel’s eye on the right shoulder up ahead. Snapping to it, Mel could see an older man with a snug hat and huge jacket tugging at his mailbox. Mel edged the car toward the center of the road, raising his head to determine if any oncoming traffic was going to come up over that hill. 

Headlights. 

Can’t give you much space. Sorry, sir, Mel thought to himself, projecting the thought toward the old man as if he could hear it.

Still, Mel kept as close to the center of the road as he could, and passed the man—and the other car—without incident as kept struggling to get the mailbox open.

Considering how close his huge piece of machinery had been to that vulnerable man, and how short the shoulder of the road was, and how slippery it was as well, Mel thought aloud: “I had that man’s fate in my hands!”

But isn’t it true that he could’ve jumped in front of you?

“Or slipped… or just backed up too far.”

If that’d happened, what fate would you have been responsible for?

“None, I guess.”

The leaves, Mel noticed, were all but gone from the passing trees.

We both had to play our role to perfection to prevent a deadly collision. I just had to stay in my lane and make sure I kept my car in control. He just had to…not get in my way, I guess. We danced a dangerous dance, then, he and I. To an extent, I had to trust him. And he really had to trust me. But his trust was without a second thought. Do you think he even heard me? He had a generalized trust for anyone who might’ve been driving by as he was getting his mail. And yet, we both played our part perfectly well….

An acorn fell onto Mel’s windshield, but he hardly noticed. His arms rotated the wheel with fluid, mindless ease, guiding the car around the tight, wood-walled curves.

That’s the same way stop lights work. Everyone is supposed to look around, though, too, and not just follow the light blindly. Even though I was expecting him to uphold his end of our deal, I still needed to be wary in case he didn’t. That way, I could still take action to avoid an accident that would’ve occurred if I hadn’t been expecting it and therefore didn’t act on it!

If he fell, for example, I should’ve been going slow enough to be able to stop, and hopefully glide out of the lane and borrow some of the oncoming lane. That’d’ve been better than running him over. And, much the same, that oncoming driver, I hope, would’ve seen his mistake, noticed my compensatory action, and himself made room for me to make room for him so we could all escape without incident despite there having been a hiccup in our little, dangerous dance!

So not only do we have to be able to play our role well, but we have to be able to adapt to potential mistakes made by the other in a way that will prevent an accident that might’ve been if not…

He uttered a sort of growl at himself, “Now I’m just repeating myself.” Switching to a smile, he concluded: “Suffice it to say, accident prevention is a cooperative effort!”

A thud and a lurch, and then Mel’s foot clamped down on the brake pedal. He glided onto the shoulder, heart clenched, sweat already beading on his forehead and cheeks.

“Uhh,” his voice quivered as he looked over his shoulder, then ahead, then repeating, before opening the door. He swung his leg over to stand, but the muscles didn’t thrust him out of the seat. He choked, felt a pressure on his throat. He cursed, then fumbled with the seatbelt and finally released himself from the car.

Whipping his head to the left, he swallowed hard, fearing what he might see. Nothing. Jogging to the back of the car, he scanned the ditch next to the road. A bundle in the road two dozen yards back caught his eye. He hurried over to it, sweat falling over his face. It was hard, in that gray-dark-bright light, to see what it was until he was quite close. 

He saw a yellow-scale claw. He imparted a sigh. The sweat turned to ice on his face and neck. The bundle was a mess of feathers which hid a body that was oblong, pushed out of shape by the weight of something large and fast. Hmm.

Walking around the bundle, Mel confirmed his suspicion that this was a turkey when he saw its bald head and big wattle, which hung over the neck of the thing like a fleshy petrified waterfall.

Mel verbalized disgust, then felt pretty bad, so he said, to the dead bird,

“Sorry, little dude. Tough luck I guess. Um… here.”

He bent toward the creature and grabbed the back of its neck with his fingertips, but it was too heavy to lift like that. Sighing, he wrapped his fingers all the way around it and, carrying the body far away from his own, laid the bird a little way into the ditch, feet first.

Shaken by cold and wiping his hand on his pants, Mel hopped back toward the car. About to set himself in the driver’s seat, he hesitated, then curved around to the front to check the damage.

Come on, dude. Seriously?