Monday, May 10, 2004
Death Comes by Van
This weekend I had an invitation to attend a Cubs game with my friend and her grandparents. Since I am a huge fan of both pathos-laden sports and octogenarians, I seized the opportunity. What I did not realize, however, was that our shuttle van ride to the game would take on an intensity generally reserved only for David Mamet plays and the Snow White ride at Disney World.
Our driver got things off to the right start by announcing that it was his first day and that he did not really know where any addresses in Chicago were. He followed that up with a number of hairpin turns and rapid-fire lane changes apparently picked up during his days on the set of The Dukes of Hazzard. His true highlight, however, came when he not only dropped some of our tourist friends off at the wrong train station but also dumped the contents of their luggage on the pavement. Tips were not freely forthcoming.
There is no “I” in “crazy van,” however, and our driver happily shared the spotlight with a big-haired, big-sunglassed woman who frequently and furiously let everyone know that she had a baby shower to get to, stat. She accused the driver of “lying to her” about our itinerary with a ferocity that caused me to wonder if perhaps they had once been romantically involved. Then, in a flourish that invoked the best in dysfunctional family cliches, she turned to the rest of the van and said “you agree with me, don’t you?” Not wanting to get involved, we didn’t, but I did feel a sudden urge to applaud.
All good things must come to an end, though, and we soon arrived at the Friendly Confines, where we were forced to leave behind our new friends, who ought to be confined. Sad as we were to see them go, we knew that our time had come, and that there were passengers that needed berating and pedestrians that needed striking elsewhere.
This weekend I had an invitation to attend a Cubs game with my friend and her grandparents. Since I am a huge fan of both pathos-laden sports and octogenarians, I seized the opportunity. What I did not realize, however, was that our shuttle van ride to the game would take on an intensity generally reserved only for David Mamet plays and the Snow White ride at Disney World.
Our driver got things off to the right start by announcing that it was his first day and that he did not really know where any addresses in Chicago were. He followed that up with a number of hairpin turns and rapid-fire lane changes apparently picked up during his days on the set of The Dukes of Hazzard. His true highlight, however, came when he not only dropped some of our tourist friends off at the wrong train station but also dumped the contents of their luggage on the pavement. Tips were not freely forthcoming.
There is no “I” in “crazy van,” however, and our driver happily shared the spotlight with a big-haired, big-sunglassed woman who frequently and furiously let everyone know that she had a baby shower to get to, stat. She accused the driver of “lying to her” about our itinerary with a ferocity that caused me to wonder if perhaps they had once been romantically involved. Then, in a flourish that invoked the best in dysfunctional family cliches, she turned to the rest of the van and said “you agree with me, don’t you?” Not wanting to get involved, we didn’t, but I did feel a sudden urge to applaud.
All good things must come to an end, though, and we soon arrived at the Friendly Confines, where we were forced to leave behind our new friends, who ought to be confined. Sad as we were to see them go, we knew that our time had come, and that there were passengers that needed berating and pedestrians that needed striking elsewhere.
