Assumptions

Much later, I decided that when the clunker in front of me braked for the traffic light, some of the wet snow on its roof must have slid forward, obscuring the windshield. A moment later it became apparent that the car was out of washer fluid, or that the washer mechanism was broken, or that the wipers were broken, or all three. But the people in the car, whatever their true circumstances, responded with something unexpected and creative. Really, it was a tiny little episode, inconsequential except that it interested me, and I guess it troubled me. When I was much younger, I too drove dinged-up, falling-apart little cars, because I lacked the money to fix them, or to toss them and buy something new. Whenever people saw me in and around those junkers, I hoped they wouldn’t take much notice, or make negative assumptions about me. I try to remember that. But sometimes I forget.

* * * * * * * * * *

One mid-morning last February, I was driving along an access road called Fortune Boulevard, next to an interstate in the old Massachusetts factory town of Milford, just west of where I live. I don’t know how many fortunes have been won here, but some have certainly been lost, or at least changed hands. Ranks of strip malls, discount hotels, and low-rise office buildings plodded along at either side. The world was a study in pale gray and dirty gray; sometime before dawn, a few inches of mushy snow had fallen, though not enough to keep people from running their errands. 

I was out running errands myself, and there was a line of cars before me and a line of cars behind me. I had a sports talk station on the radio, but I wasn’t listening too closely. February can be dull, sportswise and otherwise: the Super Bowl, which had been dull, had come and gone; meanwhile, the pitchers for the Red Sox were only just arriving in Florida.

We approached a red light, me and my fellow drivers, and came to a stop. I was behind a small sedan with a Rhode Island license plate, and what looked like four adults inside, and a layer of snow on the roof. When it snows around here, it often snows more heavily to the north, while sleet or rain predominate down nearer the ocean. The Rhode Island tag and the layer of snow made me think that maybe this had been a coastal storm, with heavier snowfall to the south this time. Anyway, snow on the roof.

Boxed in for the next half-minute, I gaze at the sedan, and continue to make observations, which morph into assumptions. Four people crowded into a little car, an older car, a dented, rusty, beat-up car. So: people who aren’t very well-off. People who don’t have 9-to-5 jobs. People who don’t have a garage to store their car in, who have to travel out of state to find work. Besides the driver, none of the passengers have cars of their own, otherwise they’d be in them. Right? I wonder what has brought these folks to this drab streetscape, many miles from where they started out. Maybe they’re on their way to visit the nearby Target. Maybe they’re on their way to work at the nearby Target.

I want to think, even now, that this is just some harmless daydreaming of mine, but as the assumptions pile up, they begin to sound a lot like the musings of a person of privilege. A guy who considers himself important, to the point of being judgy, and seems secure in the notion that he truly belongs around here, while some other people . . . well, let’s just say he’s not sure about them.  

Back to Fortune Boulevard. While we all wait for the light to turn, the driver of the sedan reaches up and starts to crank the sunroof open. Oh I see, a sunroof: that’s nice. But won’t opening the roof let a bunch of snow come tumbling into the car? Yes it will, and it does. I see the driver and the passengers brushing snow off themselves. Next, the driver reaches up through the opening, holding a large plastic bottle full of water. What? And now the driver extends the bottle forward, and dumps its contents all over the windshield. 

I have three quick reactions:
1) A snort of surprise and amused disbelief.
2) These poor people. But, how clever they are! (I guess?)
3) These poor people. Do you think you could be ANY more patronizing towards them?

 
Then the light turns green, and the little sedan is gone. And so am I, off in another direction.