Los Gatos Weekly-Times

Rats in the maze keep eyes peeled for reward

By Carl Heintze

I don't need to tell you that Santa Clara County drivers are lousy.They cut you off, they go too fast, they run red lights, they will, if pressed, sometimes give you the finger, the ultimate in driving discourtesy.

Since I'm one of them, I've been wondering why this is so. Certainly some of it is sheer frustration. Getting from one place to another in this county, especially to work, is a series of red lights, a lot of people who seem to be late, no matter what the time, and many staring straight ahead intensely concentrated on something other than what's beside them.

They are like the proverbial rats in a maze: There are too many of them, and none of them seem to know where they are going or why. But somewhere just around the next bend in the maze, they seem to believe, they are going to find the inevitable reward. Like the rats looking for the peanut or the food pellet, there is a pot of something, if not gold, at least a sale, a bonus, a promotion, a rendezvous awaiting at the end of the drive.

I don't look for any of these rewards when I'm out trying to negotiate Highway 17 or Highway 9, the San Tomás Expressway or Highway 85.

At the least my hope is to stay free of an accident and at best to stay alive.

And yet, like the rest of the rats in the maze, I find I'm also daunted by all this. When a young man in a pickup truck barrels past me at twice the speed limit, it sometimes seems to me like a challenge. He's young, I'm old. It's youth against age, but I'm not ready to admit it yet; so, I speed up, first to see how fast he's going and then, caught up in the challenge, to keep up with him, maybe even pass him.

And so I find soon I am going too fast, I'm as bad as he is, probably worse, because his reflexes are a generation better than mine. If need be, he could control his truck better than I could stop or maneuver mine.

Prudence tells me it's time to slow down and give up, although the devil that made me hit the accelerator is still sitting on my shoulder, whispering in my ear: "You're not too old yet. You can catch him."

What's even worse are the cutters who pull in front of you even if there's not enough space, sometimes ripping across three lanes of traffic to make an exit. Obviously, they are young, they think they're immortal. Others have traffic accidents and suffer death, but not them.

They also make me angry and I long to run up side them and yell, "Who do you think you are, anyway?"

But I don't, and I doubt that it would do any good if I did. They would laugh at that old geezer beside them and yell back: "Time for the rest home, Grandpa."

That's when I know I'm as dangerous on the highway as they are. Like the rest of the rats in the maze that is our county's highways and expressways, I have abandoned reason for revenge.

I know one other thing: The automobile remains one of our last refuges. It's one of the few places we can vent our feelings and remain pretty much anonymous, one of the last bastions from which we can hurl a well chosen insult and then speed away into obscurity. Oh, I know, I could take their license numbers, but I don't know what I'd do with them if I did. Screaming an insult would make me feel better (and sometimes with the windows rolled up and in the privacy of my own car, I feel compelled to do just this).

But neither of these is a real solution. I remain as resigned as the rest of the rats in the maze, hoping for a quiet day on the freeway, wishing I were driving across Highway 50 in Nevada or eager to stay home until after 9 o'clock.

Meantime, I grit my teeth, cuss and follow the young guy in the pickup. I hope his ears are burning.

Carl Heintze is a frequent contributor to the Los Gatos Weekly-Times.