A Car Jumping (Retold)

Won Over By Reality

By Tim Bayer

BRIGHTON New York—(Weekly Hubris)—2/2/2015—It looked like a road rage incident—a lunatic jumping up and down on the roof of a car—but it wasn’t exactly road rage, and the man atop the roof wasn’t (well, precisely) a lunatic. It was, rather, I—mightily provoked.

In 1992, I worked in the town of Medina, NY, a 52-mile drive from my home in Webster. My car was a nine-year-old 1983 Chevy Cavalier with 183,000 miles on the odometer. My little vehicle had successfully cheated death for at least the previous two years, but it was tiring at the gate: a replacement ride was in order.

Driving though the town of Brockport on my daily trip home from work one evening, I saw a Mercury Grand Marquis for sale by the side of the road. I stopped to inspect the car and talk to the owner. The Mercury was in fine working order and  inexpensive—making it exactly what I needed. A price was agreed upon and, a few days later, I purchased it.

The problem I now faced was that the “new” car in Brockport needed to be transported back to Webster. The simplest solution was to register and insure the Mercury and drive it home, but this would involve getting a second driver. I then made the fateful decision to ask my brother, Mark, to assist. Mark agreed and, on a Saturday, we drove the Cavalier out to the Mercury. We attached the license plates to the Marquis, and were ready to roll: I would drive the Merc, and Mark would drive the Cavalier to Webster via Rt. 31.

All was going as planned as we reached the intersection of Rt. 19 and Rt. 31 in Brockport.

Picture the scene: Where Rt. 19 and Rt. 31 meet in Brockport is a busy intersection surrounded by many businesses, including a large Wegman’s supermarket. It’s one o’clock on Saturday afternoon, so there’s a lot of traffic—the Saturday version of rush hour. The light turns red as we roll up to this busy junction, with me in the first car at the signal light and Mark immediately behind me in the Cavalier.

Consider: Both of these cars are owned by me; both of these cars are insured by me; I have a certain amount invested in both of these cars.

Mark has absolutely no investment of any sort in either vehicle.

BUMP!

Stopped at the intersection, I am slightly jostled as the Mercury gets rear-ended, if gently, from behind. I look in the mirror and realize that Mark is not paying close enough attention and has inadvertently bumped the back of my “new” car, the Mercury, with my old car, the Cavalier. It isn’t a damaging bump, but it does get my attention.

I glare into the rear view mirror. Like a goal post, Mark puts up both hands, open palmed, to signify, “Oops. Sorry.”

I grumble under my breath a little but think, “No biggy: mistakes happen.”

I move my “new” car a little forward so that my bumper won’t be touching the bumper of the old Cavalier. Then, I settle back to watching the stop light.

BUMP (DEUX)!

Mark has nudged the back of my new car. AGAIN!

I realize that the first bump, just like the second, was no accident. Mark’s. Doing. This. On. Purpose.

The situation requires an immediate and over-the-top reaction to indicate that this inappropriate behavior will not be tolerated. The decision to mimic a juvenile temper tantrum? Well, I chalk it up to improvisation.

POOF!

In one motion, I shift into park with my right hand while simultaneously opening the door with my left, spring out of the Mercury, and hit the pavement at full tilt, heading toward the offending Cavalier.

As soon as the Mercury door flies open, Mark locks the door on the Cavalier and rolls up the window. In mid-sprint, I see the closing window but it proves an unneeded precaution as Mark was never in any peril. I wasn’t heading for the car’s interior.

It takes me only three steps to cover the distance to my old car. The fourth step comprises a leap onto the middle of the Cavalier’s hood and the fifth takes me onto the roof.

Not wanting to cave in the sheet metal on my Cavalier (remember—both cars still belong to me), I straddle the roof, placing my feet directly above the door frames on either side of the car. I then commence to jumping up and down on the car’s roof, then shift my weight from side to side. Left side, right side, up, down, up, down, left side, right side. Each shift rocks and rolls the Cavalier’s suspension from side to side, up and down. Under my relentless pounding, the poor little vehicle bounces up and down, shaking like Jerry Lee Lewis.

Mark is safely locked inside, cackling.

The best reaction, however, comes from the folks all around the intersection.

People stop. There’s a lot of pointing.

The guy in the car directly behind the Cavalier is laughing hysterically and, though transfixed by the sight before him, keeps grabbing the arm of the person in his passenger seat and pointing out through his windshield in disbelief.

While hopping up and down on the traffic-locked Cavalier, I am keeping a wary eye on the stop light, planning my retreat.

I see the signal light for Rt. 19 change from green to yellow. I count to myself briefly, and then leap off the roof and down the hood of the Cavalier to my waiting getaway car, engine still running and driver’s-side door open.

I’ve timed it perfectly. As I close the car door, the signal light turns green.

The traffic at the intersection has come to a standstill, so there are no cars making turns or moving through the intersection to obstruct my escape path.

I shift the Merc’s transmission into drive and calmly cruise down the road as though nothing unusual has happened.

There were no further incidents of “bumping” on the rest of the trip back to Webster.

On Monday morning, I drove the Cavalier to work. A perceptive co-worker who’d parked next to me in the company parking lot stopped when he got out of his car to examine mine.

“Tim”, he asked, “why are there  sneaker prints on the hood and roof of your car?”

(Photos: Tim Bayer jumping by Sean Reid; Chevrolet Cavalier type 10 hatchback by Taxiguy57 on Wikipedia; Photoshop editing by Tim Bayer.)

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