The Carpool

By Max Quayle

“I have never been in the presence of such complete ignorance,” I

growled.

“I don’t even know what you do around here, but it is obviously of no

consequence. Why don’t you go find your boss and see how long he can tolerate
you, because I have had enough of your face?”

This last I yelled with more venom than was necessary; he was beaten. His
eyes widened only slightly faster than his jaw sank. The moment was classic – a
crescendo; Joe Workman had been sticking his nose in my crews’ business for
weeks, and I had just bitten it clean off. Even though he worked for the General
Contractor, he had no concept whatever about stonework – preparatory or finish
– and his pestering, remedial questions had finally gotten way too far under my
skin.

Though I stood rigid, expecting a vicious retort, none came. I was ready for,
even wanted a fight, but it didn’t come either; he didn’t make a move toward me
at all… He just picked up his shovel, slung it up on his shoulder, and walked
off.

Of course, a prick of conscience followed not long after, suggesting I find

Joe and apologize. But I hadn’t even cursed; I remember actually being proud of
that trivial fact. I was able to push the penitent thought aside, and set about the
work to be done. I didn’t expect to see J Workman again that day, but the feeling
that I ought to speak calmly with him wouldn’t leave me…In fact; it took a force
of will to put it down after lunch. Once I made up my mind that it was he who
should come to me, rather than the opposite, the feeling left me completely.

☼ ☼ ☼

In the two months since my arrival, I had developed the habit of riding my
mountain bike the five or so miles in to the job site each morning. The workout
cleared my head, and though there were few hills, my performance usually
foretold how my day would go. It seemed to me that the faster I rode in, the
higher the precision of my stonework. A good, fast ride also helped me set the
pace for my crew. I always left before dawn, in order to be first on the site; I told
myself this was to plan my day, but I know now, it was my pride. I liked beating
the General Contractor and his crew in, and felt that I alone could set a higher
standard by my diligence and effort. I think I often forgot, on those long
Memphis, Tennessee days, exactly whose house I was building...

As usual, I set out early the next morning. I was riding along and quickly
came to the base of the only real incline on the route, glancing behind, I pressed
powerfully into the small hill. The fresh burst of effort felt good; the morning was
chill, and dim. The exertion warmed me. I was startled when a grayish,
nondescript car pulled along side me and slowed to match my speed. I glanced
over into the passenger seat and saw a very broad grin set in a rugged face
which was unknown to me. I raised my left hand to wave them on, and as I did,
the grinning man shot both hands out from within the unlit car and seized my
arm, just above the wrist. I gauged my reaction carefully, not wanting to be
swept under the rear wheels, nor be forced to dismount, and found a precarious
balance with my free right hand, and my still pedaling feet. Even as I did so, I
felt an unnatural wind in my face; I quickly realized the vehicle was accelerating,
rapidly. The roar of the engine told me that the pedal was to the floor. I glanced
over at the driver and yelled:

“What are you, crazy?”

He glared back angrily, baring a set of stained, yellow teeth and mouthed
the words: “Watch out.” Something in the cut of his jaw seemed familiar, but in
the pre-dawn light, I couldn’t connect a memory.

In my naiveté honestly expected this little scare to end before things got out
of hand. So I carefully dismounted the bike and pushed it safely from me into
the dim shoulder. I had no time to watch it careen away before my mind
screamed “Watch out!” As I struggled to get my feet under me I realized there
was a mailbox coming up, fast.

Desperate for leverage I flung my right hand in through the open window
and grappled around for the inside door handle. When my fingers curled around
it, I made my grip fast with all of the muscles in my right arm and hand; a death
grip, or life grip, as it were. I pulled my body tight to the side of the car. The
mailbox whizzed close by, and we continued accelerating. I took a second to
lean my head back and stare at my captor. The passenger, I was sure I did not
know, but I knew that I hated him: He had my arm pinned tightly over the
window slot and was holding my forearm in a two-handed vice while pulling
downward to keep me trapped.

As I tried to memorize their leering faces – from intense profiles, as they

peered forward scanning the road for their next obstacle to smash me into; to
sudden, angry facial views that held me no pity and brimmed with sickening
pleasure – I realized the connection I had previously made. It wasn’t Joe from
work, but I would swear that I was unwillingly hitching a ride with his younger
brother, or at least a close cousin.

As I watched unbelieving, the short-cropped blond man who held me

released his left hand from my forearm. The spark of relief that this ignited was
extinguished before it had a chance to grow as I watched him curl his left hand
into a fist. I stared helplessly as he cocked it behind his left ear and let fly. I
wrenched my head outward, trying to avoid a direct blow, but he caught me
square on the left temple. Stars erupted in my field of vision and I thought I
would slip into oblivion. As my head recoiled from the blow, I felt the car veer
once again toward the shoulder. Not wanting to look, I glanced forward through
a cloud of pain only to see another mailbox speeding toward my face at eye level.

I scrabbled with my feet to find purchase on the loose dirt and rock of the
road edge, and found none. I was afraid that if I tried to stand and ‘surf’ the
road, my boots, and feet with them, would be ground to a visceral pulp. Worse
than this, I couldn’t gauge the distance between my flailing feet and the back
tires, and each moment was peppered with the paralyzing fear of feeling the
terrible pressure of being dragged under the rear wheel and being subsequently
run over and left for dead, in a mangled, bootless heap. I decided to hold on,
wishing I could see a set of blessed oncoming headlights, or a stop sign; nothing
appeared.

The mailbox grazed the side of my hat as I screamed at the faces:

“Stop the car!”

This couldn’t have pleased them more – I felt the car surge forward again. I
clung all the tighter, and to my surprise, the passenger released me from the
grip of his right hand, leaving me free. I realized the perfectly ludicrous choice
before me instantly: Let go and hope to clear the rear wheel, the next roadside
obstruction and roll to a stop from a high speed, or take this grisly ride to its
approaching end, come what may. At the intersection of all of these
unbelievable, clashing realities and amidst the growing panic which was rapidly
overtaking my mind, I heard a sudden and small, but perfectly clear voice
whisper:

“Hold on.”

Grimly, I gathered my wits decided that come what may I was going to take
this ride to the end. Heaving my self up on my rapidly deteriorating boots, I shot
a glance inside the vehicle again. In a moment of clarity, I saw why I had been
released: A dark, previously unseen shadow emerged from the back seat,
laughing evilly. He found a way to slide partially into the front passenger seat
and began raining cruel blows upon my face and head with his fist. I couldn’t
believe the delight I saw so clearly in his eyes. Recognition again, caught my
mind, but in the moment, I had no time to connect.

A childhood memory flashed in my mind: I was lying on my back in the

corner of the deep, green sandbox; standing above me was a well-hated ‘big kid’.
He was straddling my skinny, cowering body, and holding my own red and white
tricycle high above my head. He was going to crush me with it, I just knew it.
That helpless, hopeless feeling returned, perfectly preserved from some primal
corner of my mind. Fighting waves of shock and panic, I held on.

I began to regret my tenacity even as the next mailbox swerved into view.
It was one of those brick enclosed models which would stop, and utterly splinter
a baseball bat; or a human head. As this new reality dawned upon my weary
mind, I simply prayed that the driver didn’t have the taste for murder. He hauled
the wheels over onto the shoulder again and I pulled my feet almost under the
car in a flinch of fear. I felt the wind and heard the muted sound of the mailbox
rush by scant inches from my bruised head. They were all three laughing,
mocking me.

Even at this instant, a car finally appeared in the other lane. This had a
profound effect upon my captors: Though not out rightly regretful, I did note a
change in their combined demeanor; a shade of doubt came over the faces; for
an instant, they seemed less unkind. I seized upon the singular truth: A
witness. “My savior,” I thought – no doubt an ordinary clerk or barber, heading
into work early – He would call this absurd scene in to the police, and malice
would be served justice. Or, so I intensely hoped…

It was at that instant that the two passengers screamed in my ear:

“Let go! Are you crazy?”

The irony of this role reversal strengthened my resolve, and I vowed they
would have to drive until my body was ground away to a legless, bleeding trunk
before I would release them. A moment hung in time as I watched my keeper
handle his solution. Like a cat that has played with a dying mouse, but really
isn’t hungry, I sensed he had no desire to kill me. I watched his eyes; they were
not delighted.

His nervous eye caught mine, and he winced. I knew in that moment that I
would be alright. He screamed at me to let go, and I snarled back through blood
stained tears:
 “Slow down, and I’ll let go.”

The sensation of a vehicle slowing down had never filled me with such
pleasure before, and it would again at odd moments in my life. This day it was
like slipping into a warm bath after being lost in a blizzard for hours. The
suddenly vulnerable driver even pulled slightly onto the lawn of an innocent
neighbor, hoping I would relent.

Though we were still traveling at a decent clip, I decided to forfeit, and

with an exerted effort, freed myself from the hell-ride. I rolled, spinning crazily
across the ground, and straining in vain to identify the absurdly swirling license
plate, and came to rest in a very still heap. Blackness.

After a long time in a very silent position, with only my slowing, deepening
breath, and decreasing heartbeat for company, I rose. Two or three passers by
had gathered around me in a crooked semi-circle, and someone had fetched my
bike. They helped me up with thinly veiled suspicion. I supposed this wasn’t a
typical commuter scene, and assured them I would be alright. With the
remnants of a huge adrenaline surge still coursing through my veins, the pain
and reality both had yet to dawn on me.

I found I was able to ride, if shakily, the last mile into work and actually
made a real attempt at squaring my mind for a normal day. As the ride came to
an end, so did the adrenal thrust and as I dismounted, a rending, searing pain
filled my neck and head. This only got worse as I took each step, and eventually
I succumbed to simply sitting on the dirt, near my bike, to await my crew.

While sitting there I realized, and am reminded today as I write this, that
my neck took the worst of it that day. The fact that I was pulling my whole body
into the punches I received; I increased their impact by fighting to control their
force. Even now, when I fall asleep sitting upright, I will sometimes awaken with
a jolt of pain as relaxation works its way through the outer layers and into the
deepest regions of muscle and sinew, to where there still lies a tangled and
scarred snarl of quasi-healed ligaments, which have long forgotten how to hold
my head so proudly.

After taking what comfort ice and fluids would offer, I called it a day, but
before accepting a ride home, I went to see Joe. He was standing - strangely, I
thought - at the center of a tight group of men who usually only peripherally
tolerated him; I walked right up to him.

“Joe,” I said, “It was wrong for me to tell you off yesterday, and I want you
to know I am sorry. Nobody should be treated that way.” I left unceremoniously,
and retired to ice packs and Advil in the shelter of my temporary abode, feeling
very far indeed from home.

It will come as no surprise to learn, that of all of the experiences I gained

while traveling as a Stonemason Foreman, this one, while often close in my
mind is shared the least. I will tell you that this was a powerful, faith promoting
experience: So many tiny things could have ruined me on that hellacious ride,
so little caution and so much risk; funny how that might apply to my vehement
lashes at Joe. As evidence of the outward lesson learned inwardly, I have not
attempted to belittle or insult any one at work since that day, and am convinced
that I was taught, though harshly, a truth that would preserve me in the future.

My exterior bruises from Memphis eventually yellowed, healed and faded;

the job came to a close. The Temple, which had been contracted to my firm by
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, came out very well, a lasting
monument to the efforts of a group of very different people all tuned to a
common goal. As always, property values in the area rose, and people became
naturally curious about the purpose of the visually pleasing house of worship. I
doubt anyone else would view it as the crucible of humility, but for me, it
certainly is.

I imagine Joe drives by it now and again, and when he does, I hope he
smiles.