MB Civic

By Elissa Ely | July 30, 2006 | The Boston Globe

RECENTLY, IN FRONT of a bread bakery that carries an excellent semolina, I had the pleasure of rediscovering my limitations. My arms were full of bread and car keys. A van with Southern plates and a half “Gone Fishing” bumper sticker was double-parked next to my car. I waited on the sidewalk for what seemed a generous length of time, though it was probably not. Then I rapped on the passenger window. A small boy unrolled the window, said his mother was in the convenience store picking something up, she would be out in just a second, he was awfully sorry. There was a bad smell inside the van.

Feeling fair-minded and patient, I waited another minute that was probably not a minute, and went into the store. Life is time, and this was wasting mine. A woman stood at the check-out counter, her back to me. Her hair was long, not well washed, not well brushed.

“Someone’s blocking my car,” I said. I owned the meter space until I left; it was paid for with quarters. All goes smoothly in a community when everyone knows the rules. She needed to apologize and fix the problem.

She turned around. Never mind the rules.

“It’s gonna be another 30 seconds. You can’t wait?” she said.

“I can’t get out,” I said.

“You’re so important?”

By double-parking in front of someone in a bakery, instead of someone at the start of a double feature, she had run into bad luck. But she was missing the ethical point. It was her fault, not mine. If she moved her car, we could have a pleasant exchange. If she apologized, it might become the first moments of a friendship to laugh over in years ahead.

She was looking at me bitterly. Her glasses were dirty and it was hard to see her eyes.

“I have five kids in that car,” she said, “and no place else to park. Now you want me to move?”

Up was down, white was green. The situation had become my fault. As a rule, I buckle for bullies, but this was indefensible.

“I want you to move,” I said.

We turned together to the check-out clerk — our witness, our judge. One of us was guilty in this case of Reasonable vs. Unreasonable. He immediately looked away; he had problems of his own.

“All right,” said the woman, and stormed out of the store. I was right behind her. She banged on the driver’s door and yelled, “Unlock it, kids, we gotta go, this lady’s in such a hurry.” She got into the car, threw it in gear, and tore off. I got into my car, threw it in gear, and tore after her. By the time I had gotten around the curve, she was gone.

Speeding home, my thoughts were vicious and man-eating, trigger happy with fury, full of bile, most unlike the public me. They brought a small sense of justice, though no relief, since there was no audience willing to agree I was right.

About a mile down the road, still speeding and furious, I began to think of the smell in the van, her glasses, her hair, her many silent children. If I had met her in the clinic without a list of errands and a loaf of semolina in my arms, she might have been the same person, but I would have been different. I would have been public: interested, uncritical, and excusing. The interaction would have been professional, instead of personal. Colleagues would have recognized me. I would have recognized and approved me, too, and I would have preferred myself this way.

Under similar circumstances, a Zen master might have laughed at the absurd moment. A well-analyzed psychiatrist might have paused for thought. But I am not enlightened yet. This person — the vengeance-driven, inflexible one — was exposed for viewing. It didn’t make me happy. After a certain age, you don’t want the world to see you buck naked.

Elissa Ely is a psychiatrist.