Nowhere is this false sense of privacy more apparent than in
the car pool line at a school. Short of the occasional nose picking or nail
clipping, I tend to spend my time doing publicly condoned car line activities
like reading, talking or playing with my phone, and even writing, long hand of
course, because trying to balance a laptop on a steering wheel borders on the
weird. I’ve never felt that I was totally alone, however, because I am in lines
with dozens of other people killing time in similar ways. Except for some
people who seem oblivious that they are not really alone.
I am pretty sure I have seen everything short of sexual acts
while waiting for my children to be dismissed from their school days. As much
as I don’t want to think about it, I have to admit, I have spent the better
part of over thirty minutes every school day for over eleven years sitting in a
line of other cars, waiting on children. So it stands to reason that during
that block of time, people are going to find creative ways to fill it. I have
to tell you, sometimes it’s hard to concentrate on my own time wasting because
I am so curious or distracted by the time wasting that surrounds me.
Elementary school car lines are pretty normal compared to the
middle school line. In elementary school, the moms and occasional dads usually
sleep or talk loudly on the phone. They might have younger children napping in
their car seats, waiting for big brother or sister to play with them after a
busy day of learning. I don’t think I
saw anything weirder than someone walking their dog on the school grounds while
waiting in the car line, and just as a reminder, if you decide to do the same,
it’s kind of courteous to pick up after your dog. Especially at a school. What
if your kid is the one who steps in the offending pile of crap? I bet you wouldn’t
like it much, would you, if your Dodge Durango was defiled by some dog doo. Plus on a hot afternoon, that crap gets a little ripe.
Middle school takes the car pool line to a whole other level.
First of all, the care and concern for the children’s safety is just totally out
the window after fifth grade. In elementary school, you have to have a numbered
tag to identify you as the authorized person to whom your child should be
released. In middle school, you could pretty much have your pick of victims. No
one gives a shit who gets in what car. If you were in the kidnapping business,
the middle school car line might be the place for you.
All that not paying attention to children’s safety lends a
certain air of not giving a shit to the whole line, which is apparent when you
spend some time observing the cars around you. There are the parents who expect
their kids to walk to their car and therefore refuse to follow the car line
protocol. They don’t pull forward to the car in front of them; they just stop
where they want to, and fuck the rest of you. These are the same parents who
like to make a seven point turn to get back out of the line after collecting their
kids. Again, fuck you while you wait for them to execute what is a pretty
tricky maneuver in a Lincoln Navigator. Never mind the flow of cars and the one way road loop designed for smooth dismissal. It's every jackass for himself.
Once on a sunny day, I got a contact high from the high
school student smoking weed in the car in front of me. Clearly he knew how he wanted to
kill time waiting on his younger brother, and his weed fog wafted out of his
sun roof on a cloud of Van Halen before drifting through my open windows. I didn't mind the wait so much that afternoon.
The other day, I had to drop off some medicine at the
school, so I parked my car in line and got out to walk into the school. I
passed by one car with its windows down, and inside was a barefoot woman
rubbing the space between her big toe and pointer toe along her steering wheel.
What the actual fuck? Was that some sort of trigger point massage technique I’ve
not heard about? She was pretty into it, although I didn’t hear any moaning,
thank you Jesus. She's going to rub her hands all over that after she's done, and then she will be in front of you at the grocery store, paying in cash before you get money back from your debit card. You might as well have rubbed her feet for her.
Last week, I was treated to a real show in the white Fiat in
front of me. The driver was an elderly woman with that unnatural shade of red
hair preferred by women who think it makes them look younger than white or gray
even though it really looks like they’ve soaked their shorn locks in a cheap
box of Franzia. Anyway, red headed grandma had a full back seat, three kids
across, in her Fiat. Honestly, the car is the same size AS a box of Franzia.
She had her windows open and was making the loudest phone call ever, which was enhanced by the fact that she was on speaker phone. Not only did I get to
hear her confusion, but I was also party to the frustration of the woman at the
doctor’s office with whom she spoke. The topic was none other than her prolapsed
bladder, and she had a lot of information to share with a front office clerk
who would have preferred to just schedule an appointment or connect her to the
nurse’s voice mail. Honestly, I was convinced the call was taking place inside
my car, nay, inside my head. I hope to never experience what she is. I am sorry about her bladder, truly I am.
Loud doesn’t cover the volume at which this call was
conducted. What is louder than loud?
After she completed the call, she hung up, opened her car
door, and stepped out to adjust her pants and possibly her bladder. She stood
next to the car, tugging her velour track pants back up to her armpits, making
sure to get them wedged in both the front and the back before clambering back
into her Fiat, at which point she began yelling at what I presume were her
grandchildren in the back seat, all three of them. Whatever they had done to
provoke her wasn’t audible over her phone call, but clearly she was upset with
them, and we all needed to know about it. Maybe she was just cranky because she
needs a bladder tuck. I felt sorry for the lot of them, trapped with a crabby
wine head in that clown car. Too bad she didn't have a big glass of what she used to dye her hair.
My request for my fellow car line patrons? Just stick to nose picking or slack jawed naps when waiting
behind the wheel. It’s almost more socially appropriate. I don't want to know that much about you people.
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