17 years later, I still remember this act of kindness from another driver

Essay by Thomas Lake, CNN

(CNN) — Of all the things we do in ordinary life, driving a car may be the strangest. The world rushes by as a 4,000-pound machine awaits your command. It obeys your worst impulses. It magnifies your worst errors. It is perfectly willing to express your rage. On the highway, you’re surrounded by others with the same terrible power. You’re guiding a missile that could be your tomb.

I want to tell you about a time another driver saved me from danger. Though it happened in less than a minute, without a spoken word, it remains in my memory 17 years later.

Back then I was zipping around Florida in a Scion TC coupe. It was quick and silver, with a black interior and a five-speed manual transmission that had once foiled a carjacker who didn’t know how to drive stick. The steering wheel and the shifter were seasoned with the long-accumulated residue of french-fry grease and Arby’s Sauce.

I was heading south on U.S. Highway 19 in Pasco County, Florida, a stretch of road that has been called “the deadliest road in America” because of the many pedestrians who are struck and killed there. It’s one of those divided highways that cuts through the suburbs and tempts you to drive 65 or 70 when you should be going 45.

Highway 19 has dedicated lanes for left turns. I think I had spaced out and forgotten to get into the left-turn lane. I was one lane to the right, stopped at a red light. As the left-turn arrow flashed green, I watched the vehicles streaming into the intersection. I needed to make two maneuvers very quickly: veer left to the turn lane and enter that left-turning stream. But the cars were moving quickly, and I couldn’t see where they ended. I was afraid of cutting someone off, or worse.

Chances are, you’ve been on both sides of this situation – the hesitant side, and the impatient side. There’s something about a person getting in our way that induces a special kind of fury. On the same highway, I once absent-mindedly cut in front of this enormous jacked-up pickup truck. The driver followed me for a long time, pulling alongside me in the next lane. You know it’s really bad when you see the window roll down.

As drivers, we like our sealed compartments of metal and glass. Rage can unseal them. Fear keeps them shut. At least it did for me. I kept my window rolled up, eyes on the road, probably making the pickup man angrier with my silence.

Vehicles don’t have many communication tools. There’s the horn and the turn signal and not much else. Various people have proposed buttons that would flash written messages to other drivers. THANK YOU and I’M SORRY would be the two most obvious. Those buttons have never caught on, but I still think they’re a good idea. If I’d had a SORRY button, I would’ve pressed it repeatedly for my new friend in the pickup truck. Eventually he gave up and drove off.

Anyway, I was stuck on Highway 19, trying to merge left. I was feeling trapped, getting nervous. Then I noticed the driver behind me, a young guy in a forgettable vehicle. He was making hand motions. And they seemed to be intended for me.

Was he flipping me off? No. Telling me to hurry up? Again, no.

This young man had apparently seen my left turn signal and my hapless attempt to slip into the ripping current of left-turners. And against all odds, it seemed he was trying to help.

He may have been in the last car lined up at the red light. Either way, he had a clear view of left-turning traffic from an angle I didn’t have. He was willing to be my guide. All I needed was a little blind faith.

In the rear-view mirror, I could see him holding up three fingers.

Pretty quickly, I figured out what three fingers meant. Three more cars before the next opening.

A car went by. He held up two fingers.

Another car went by. He held up one finger.

I prepared to let out the clutch and hit the accelerator. The third car went by. The coast was clear. The stranger gave me a sign that I took to mean, GO GO GO!

I went.

It all happened so fast. Looking back now, I can’t quite remember if I had time to give him a wave of thanks. I hope I did. If I’d had a THANK YOU button, I would’ve pressed it vigorously.

I imagine this man in the years since then, honing his craft of vehicular altruism. Maybe he’s added more signs to his vocabulary. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s saved a few lives.

I’ll be honest about my own driving history. It’s all over the place. Sometimes I let people merge in front of me, and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I stop for people who are broken down on the shoulder, and sometimes I drive on. I wish I could say I’d carried on the tradition of the hand signals, but I’ve never pulled it off. Maybe I haven’t been in the right circumstances. Or maybe I haven’t been brave enough.

Still, the generous stranger occupies a space in my mind. He reminds me that some of our limits are self-imposed. That we can do more, and better, if we open our eyes and try harder. He reminds me of all the good reasons we have to unseal our compartments.

Kindness, for one.

And in my case, contrition.

The other day on a city street I took a right turn when I thought no one was coming and accidentally cut off a car that was barreling down a hill. The driver honked and hit the brakes, stopping just in time to avoid a collision.

As I waited at the next red light, I had no button to express my regret.

The other car pulled up next to me, about to turn left. I couldn’t see the driver. No one was yelling at me, but I did notice that the passenger’s-side window was down.

I was slightly behind this other car, looking at the open window, agonizing over what to do.

And then I did it.

I rolled down my window.

I pulled even with the other car and looked inside. The driver was a young woman. I took a breath.

“Sorry about that,” I said.

“That’s okay,” she said, and the light changed, and she was gone.

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