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The Curse of the White Jetta
By Suzanne Malek-Carter

In my charcoal gray, 1991 Honda Accord, I reached for the volume knob on the radio. It was a beautiful autumn in the middle of California, and highway one was treating me well. The ocean crashed on one side, and on the other green fields sprawled out until they reached tiny fingers up the sides of gray mountains. My classic rock station was loving me today; all my favorite songs rocked on back to back. The road was loving me too. Traffic was good, and my little storm cloud of a car ate it up and left it dustless behind us. I had a long way to go, and that was okay with me.

I turned Jimi Hendrix up a notch, then turned back to the road. I heaved a sigh and turned the radio down to hear better.

A white Jetta had snuck into my lane from a nearby on-ramp. Oh, man. I let up on the accelerator and switched lanes, hoping the driver might disappear on the horizon.

Now there is need for explanation. My life experiences have led me to avoid the driver of the white Jetta. Whatever, age, race, gender, or social class the driver is, he or she is the same person to me every time. It may be a well dressed man on a cell phone who goes so slow I want to scream, and then somehow comes to and speeds up as I try to pass. It may be a beautiful college girl who tails me at 75 mph, flashing her brights for five miles before realizing no one else is on the road, and she can pass any time she wants. It may be an unidentifiable individual swerving sharply from one side of the lane to the other. It may be a middle-aged woman driving with two wheels on one side of the reflector line, two wheels on the other, as if she couldn"t choose just one lane. No matter who it is, I see the same face every time: the cold, blank mask of stupidity exclusive to the driver of a white Jetta.

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Written by: Malek-Carter
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