As he’d be first in line to tell you himself, Joe is a slow and careful man. One of his favourite sayings is, “I have two speeds. Slow and stop.” This attribute applies every bit as much to his driving as to the rest of his life.
For instance, at one time there were two distinct phases on the journey between Joe and his wife’s small city, and their son’s apartment in Toronto. Joe would drive himself and his ‘better half’, as he often called her, sandwiches wrapped in wax paper on the front seat between them, to visit him there. ‘Hogtown’ Joe called it – a title it had earned years ago as the recognized regional centre for meat packing. But the way Joe and his friends used the word, it signified their belief that Toronto ‘hogged’ all the tax revenues for itself. Sometimes Joe would repeat ‘Hogtown’ with a little smile and a wink in his wife’s direction.
The first leg of their trip was a happy stretch of secondary highways through forests and farmers’ fields. They’d play a game. If they saw cows, they’d say “Moo.” If they saw a field of sheep, they’d say “Baa”. And if the saw a pony, they’d say, “Oh look, look!”
Then they would need to merge onto the 401, the multi-lane superhighway to Toronto and beyond.
On the most recent trip they took, once they were on the 401, Joe as usual focused in on the sign ‘Slower Traffic Keep Right’. That was a message sent directly from the universe to Joe. “Good, OK,” he said. “Very good.”
Too soon, though, another sign flashed its message in large letters. ‘Right Lane Must Exit’. Not so good. Seeing that, Joe cut in front of and between whatever cars were around him so he could edge into the middle lane. Once there Joe, of course, maintained his previous speed. Traffic honked and tailgated and zoomed left. When you are driving 40 mph in the middle lane of the 401, you are not a source of joy to others.
Worse, by the time they reached the Don Valley Parkway cutoff at the 4:30 rush hour, all around them distorted screaming faces were pressed against their own car windows.
Which, of course meant Joe, ever courteous and cooperative, reduced his speed to 35.
It was then the police officer, red lights flashing, signaled Joe to pull over to the shoulder. It is difficult to report how Joe eventually accomplished this maneuver except to say, as the official notes recorded, “It took my husband a while.”
“License and registration.” Joe knew right where those were and handed them over, one at a time. “Do you know why I pulled you over?” the police officer asked.
“Sure,” said Joe. “I was the only one you could catch.”
