Carpool

The Carpool By Max Quayle

“I have never been in the presence of such complete ignorance,” I growled. “I don’t even know what you do around here, but it is obviously of no consequence. Why don’t you go find your boss and see how long he can tolerate you, because I have had enough of your face?” This last I yelled with more venom than was necessary; he was beaten. His eyes widened only slightly faster than his jaw sank. The moment was classic – a crescendo; Joe Workman had been sticking his nose in my crews’ business for weeks, and I had just bitten it clean off. Even though he worked for the General Contractor, he had no concept whatever about stonework – preparatory or finish – and his pestering, remedial questions had finally gotten way too far under my skin. Though I stood rigid, expecting a vicious retort, none came. I was ready for, even wanted a fight, but it didn’t come either; he didn’t make a move toward me at all… He just picked up his shovel, slung it up on his shoulder, and walked off. Of course, a prick of conscience followed not long after, suggesting I find Joe and apologize. But I hadn’t even cursed; I remember actually being proud of that trivial fact. I was able to push the penitent thought aside, and set about the work to be done. I didn’t expect to see J Workman again that day, but the feeling that I ought to speak calmly with him wouldn’t leave me…In fact; it took a force of will to put it down after lunch. Once I made up my mind that it was he who should come to me, rather than the opposite, the feeling left me completely. ☼

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In the two months since my arrival, I had developed the habit of riding my mountain bike the five or so miles in to the job site each morning. The workout cleared my head, and though there were few hills, my performance usually foretold how my day would go. It seemed to me that the faster I rode in, the higher the precision of my stonework. A good, fast ride also helped me set the pace for my crew. I always left before dawn, in order to be first on the site; I told myself this was to plan my day, but I know now, it was my pride. I liked beating the General Contractor and his crew in, and felt that I alone could set a higher

standard by my diligence and effort. I think I often forgot, on those long Memphis, Tennessee days, exactly whose house I was building...

As usual, I set out early the next morning. I was riding along and quickly came to the base of the only real incline on the route, glancing behind, I pressed powerfully into the small hill. The fresh burst of effort felt good; the morning was chill, and dim. The exertion warmed me. I was startled when a grayish, nondescript car pulled along side me and slowed to match my speed. I glanced over into the passenger seat and saw a very broad grin set in a rugged face which was unknown to me. I raised my left hand to wave them on, and as I did, the grinning man shot both hands out from within the unlit car and seized my arm, just above the wrist. I gauged my reaction carefully, not wanting to be swept under the rear wheels, nor be forced to dismount, and found a precarious balance with my free right hand, and my still pedaling feet. Even as I did so, I felt an unnatural wind in my face; I quickly realized the vehicle was accelerating, rapidly. The roar of the engine told me that the pedal was to the floor. I glanced over at the driver and yelled: “What are you, crazy?” He glared back angrily, baring a set of stained, yellow teeth and mouthed the words: “Watch out.” Something in the cut of his jaw seemed familiar, but in the pre-dawn light, I couldn’t connect a memory. In my naiveté honestly expected this little scare to end before things got out of hand. So I carefully dismounted the bike and pushed it safely from me into the dim shoulder. I had no time to watch it careen away before my mind screamed “Watch out!” As I struggled to get my feet under me I realized there was a mailbox coming up, fast. Desperate for leverage I flung my right hand in through the open window and grappled around for the inside door handle. When my fingers curled around it, I made my grip fast with all of the muscles in my right arm and hand; a death grip, or life grip, as it were. I pulled my body tight to the side of the car. The mailbox whizzed close by, and we continued accelerating. I took a second to lean my head back and stare at my captor. The passenger, I was sure I did not know, but I knew that I hated him: He had my arm pinned tightly over the window slot and was holding my forearm in a two-handed vice while pulling downward to keep me trapped. As I tried to memorize their leering faces – from intense profiles, as they peered forward scanning the road for their next obstacle to smash me into; to

sudden, angry facial views that held me no pity and brimmed with sickening pleasure – I realized the connection I had previously made. It wasn’t Joe from work, but I would swear that I was unwillingly hitching a ride with his younger brother, or at least a close cousin. As I watched unbelieving, the short-cropped blond man who held me released his left hand from my forearm. The spark of relief that this ignited was extinguished before it had a chance to grow as I watched him curl his left hand into a fist. I stared helplessly as he cocked it behind his left ear and let fly. I wrenched my head outward, trying to avoid a direct blow, but he caught me square on the left temple. Stars erupted in my field of vision and I thought I would slip into oblivion. As my head recoiled from the blow, I felt the car veer once again toward the shoulder. Not wanting to look, I glanced forward through a cloud of pain only to see another mailbox speeding toward my face at eye level. I scrabbled with my feet to find purchase on the loose dirt and rock of the road edge, and found none. I was afraid that if I tried to stand and ‘surf’ the road, my boots, and feet with them, would be ground to a visceral pulp. Worse than this, I couldn’t gauge the distance between my flailing feet and the back tires, and each moment was peppered with the paralyzing fear of feeling the terrible pressure of being dragged under the rear wheel and being subsequently run over and left for dead, in a mangled, bootless heap. I decided to hold on, wishing I could see a set of blessed oncoming headlights, or a stop sign; nothing appeared. The mailbox grazed the side of my hat as I screamed at the faces: “Stop the car!” This couldn’t have pleased them more – I felt the car surge forward again. I clung all the tighter, and to my surprise, the passenger released me from the grip of his right hand, leaving me free. I realized the perfectly ludicrous choice before me instantly: Let go and hope to clear the rear wheel, the next roadside obstruction and roll to a stop from a high speed, or take this grisly ride to its approaching end, come what may. At the intersection of all of these unbelievable, clashing realities and amidst the growing panic which was rapidly overtaking my mind, I heard a sudden and small, but perfectly clear voice whisper: “Hold on.” Grimly, I gathered my wits decided that come what may I was going to take this ride to the end. Heaving my self up on my rapidly deteriorating boots, I shot a glance inside the vehicle again. In a moment of clarity, I saw why I had been

released: A dark, previously unseen shadow emerged from the back seat, laughing evilly. He found a way to slide partially into the front passenger seat and began raining cruel blows upon my face and head with his fist. I couldn’t believe the delight I saw so clearly in his eyes. Recognition again, caught my mind, but in the moment, I had no time to connect. A childhood memory flashed in my mind: I was lying on my back in the corner of the deep, green sandbox; standing above me was a well-hated ‘big kid’. He was straddling my skinny, cowering body, and holding my own red and white tricycle high above my head. He was going to crush me with it, I just knew it. That helpless, hopeless feeling returned, perfectly preserved from some primal corner of my mind. Fighting waves of shock and panic, I held on. I began to regret my tenacity even as the next mailbox swerved into view. It was one of those brick enclosed models which would stop, and utterly splinter a baseball bat; or a human head. As this new reality dawned upon my weary mind, I simply prayed that the driver didn’t have the taste for murder. He hauled the wheels over onto the shoulder again and I pulled my feet almost under the car in a flinch of fear. I felt the wind and heard the muted sound of the mailbox rush by scant inches from my bruised head. They were all three laughing, mocking me. Even at this instant, a car finally appeared in the other lane. This had a profound effect upon my captors: Though not out rightly regretful, I did note a change in their combined demeanor; a shade of doubt came over the faces; for an instant, they seemed less unkind. I seized upon the singular truth: A witness. “My savior,” I thought – no doubt an ordinary clerk or barber, heading into work early – He would call this absurd scene in to the police, and malice would be served justice. Or, so I intensely hoped… It was at that instant that the two passengers screamed in my ear: “Let go! Are you crazy?” The irony of this role reversal strengthened my resolve, and I vowed they would have to drive until my body was ground away to a legless, bleeding trunk before I would release them. A moment hung in time as I watched my keeper handle his solution. Like a cat that has played with a dying mouse, but really isn’t hungry, I sensed he had no desire to kill me. I watched his eyes; they were not delighted. His nervous eye caught mine, and he winced. I knew in that moment that I would be alright. He screamed at me to let go, and I snarled back through blood stained tears:

“Slow down, and I’ll let go.” The sensation of a vehicle slowing down had never filled me with such pleasure before, and it would again at odd moments in my life. This day it was like slipping into a warm bath after being lost in a blizzard for hours. The suddenly vulnerable driver even pulled slightly onto the lawn of an innocent neighbor, hoping I would relent. Though we were still traveling at a decent clip, I decided to forfeit, and with an exerted effort, freed myself from the hell-ride. I rolled, spinning crazily across the ground, and straining in vain to identify the absurdly swirling license plate, and came to rest in a very still heap. Blackness. After a long time in a very silent position, with only my slowing, deepening breath, and decreasing heartbeat for company, I rose. Two or three passers by had gathered around me in a crooked semi-circle, and someone had fetched my bike. They helped me up with thinly veiled suspicion. I supposed this wasn’t a typical commuter scene, and assured them I would be alright. With the remnants of a huge adrenaline surge still coursing through my veins, the pain and reality both had yet to dawn on me. I found I was able to ride, if shakily, the last mile into work and actually made a real attempt at squaring my mind for a normal day. As the ride came to an end, so did the adrenal thrust and as I dismounted, a rending, searing pain filled my neck and head. This only got worse as I took each step, and eventually I succumbed to simply sitting on the dirt, near my bike, to await my crew. While sitting there I realized, and am reminded today as I write this, that my neck took the worst of it that day. The fact that I was pulling my whole body into the punches I received; I increased their impact by fighting to control their force. Even now, when I fall asleep sitting upright, I will sometimes awaken with a jolt of pain as relaxation works its way through the outer layers and into the deepest regions of muscle and sinew, to where there still lies a tangled and scarred snarl of quasi-healed ligaments, which have long forgotten how to hold my head so proudly. After taking what comfort ice and fluids would offer, I called it a day, but before accepting a ride home, I went to see Joe. He was standing - strangely, I thought - at the center of a tight group of men who usually only peripherally tolerated him; I walked right up to him. “Joe,” I said, “It was wrong for me to tell you off yesterday, and I want you to know I am sorry. Nobody should be treated that way.” I left unceremoniously,

and retired to ice packs and Advil in the shelter of my temporary abode, feeling very far indeed from home. It will come as no surprise to learn, that of all of the experiences I gained while traveling as a Stonemason Foreman, this one, while often close in my mind is shared the least. I will tell you that this was a powerful, faith promoting experience: So many tiny things could have ruined me on that hellacious ride, so little caution and so much risk; funny how that might apply to my vehement lashes at Joe. As evidence of the outward lesson learned inwardly, I have not attempted to belittle or insult any one at work since that day, and am convinced that I was taught, though harshly, a truth that would preserve me in the future. My exterior bruises from Memphis eventually yellowed, healed and faded; the job came to a close. The Temple, which had been contracted to my firm by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, came out very well, a lasting monument to the efforts of a group of very different people all tuned to a common goal. As always, property values in the area rose, and people became naturally curious about the purpose of the visually pleasing house of worship. I doubt anyone else would view it as the crucible of humility, but for me, it certainly is. I imagine Joe drives by it now and again, and when he does, I hope he smiles.