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A Portrait of the Cartist as a Rapidly Aging Man |
by Thomas Sullivan
I need to figure out Lesson 4, which covers rural driving. I start from the school and motor out to the rural area. Where my route plan says, "Begin Rural Portion" I find myself next to Mountain Meadows, a vast development where new dwellings have swallowed the original meadows and squeezed out cul-de-sacs as a waste product. Around the next corner, I pass Progress Ridge, which resembles a large herd of bloated homes crawling up a steep ridge. Covering the hillside with new houses seems to be what's in progress here. But these developments pale in comparison to what I encounter around the next corner: Heron Ridge. Thousands of homes slope down a broad valley and up to the very top of the ridge crest on the horizon. The massive tract fills my entire range of sight when I look directly at it. Small plantings, struggling valiantly to replace original trees, cower between oversized, homogeneous structures. Don't herons need water and trees? These developments seem to be everywhere in Beaverton. You can usually tell what these monstrosities displaced by looking at their names.
I turn onto a two-lane road and break free of the new construction. Cruising past farms and clumps of woods, I glance at my route plan. I'm on track so far. I swing right and ramble down a windy road with a severe drop-off, glancing at my directions between curves. Approaching the next right I slow down, looking for a street sign. There isn't one. Some addict probably snagged it and pawned the metal for a hit. I swing onto the road anyway, hoping it's the right one.
My directions tell me to look for a country store on the right side of the road. Two minutes later I start passing blocks of apartments and condos. This can't be right. Soon, I merge onto a four-lane road choking with traffic. Slogging past a stadium-sized Walgreens, I sigh, certain that I'm lost. I creep in line up to an enormous intersection. Sitting far back from the red light, I count the lanes. There's three to my left and four on the opposite side of the road. All of the roads running into this nasty confluence are the same, so it's thirty-two lanes total. Each time a light turns green, I watch a pack of cars roar from a stop, like greyhounds bolting from a racetrack gate.
Ten minutes later I've got pole position. I bang right, lurch into the Walgreens parking lot, and blaze across an endless stretch of pavement. Dodging cars in the lot, I feel like a footballer sprinting from the end zone to the goal line. At the far end, I sit twitching at another entrance. After an endless wait, I get a gap and launch onto the road. Screw the route plan. I can wing the lesson and make something up. I just want out of this hell-hole.
I retreat to Beaverton, retracing my earlier steps. I'm not taking any chances here. I'm spent after only an hour and a half of driving. This environment, with its never-ending lights, turns, stops, starts, intersections, and shopping areas begins to get to you. After a while you want to speed, pass, not let someone in, get through the yellow light, gnash your teeth and get to your safe haven as quickly as possible. You don't admire landscapes or nice architecture or much of anything. You just drive.
Driving back to the school, I pass two more Starbucks. The damn things are everywhere in this town. It occurs to me that there must be a reason for this. Maybe God gave us the 'Bucks so we'd have a safer place than Denny's to use the restroom at 6:40 a.m.
Thomas Sullivan is a teacher who has taught in both the private and the public sector. His writing has appeared in Word Riot, 3AM Magazine and Memoir (and), among others. His memoir of teaching drivers education (titled Life In The Slow Lane) is forthcoming from Uncial Press in Fall 2009. He welcomes your comments at tmpsull@gmail.com.
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