Mavis squirms in the seat of her Lexus as she observes traffic backing up. The street light, disabled by a passing thunderstorm, flashes red. Every driver must stop and maneuver through a helter-skelter mess of vehicles transversing the intersection.
A police car maneuvers through the tangle of traffic. Because of its leisurely pace as it cruises away, Mavis concludes the policemen inside have nothing better to do than direct traffic. She is irritated that they do not do so. She always wanted to direct traffic.
Mavis is a can do gal. Before retirement, she ran a company where she didn’t tolerate inaction when bad things happened to customers or employees. She told her staff, “Do something—even if it’s wrong.” She wanted to put dammit on the end of that sentence for emphases, but of course, she couldn’t do that. Corporate America frowns on such language, especially coming from a woman. In her mind, those policemen have an obligation to “do something” about the traffic backup.
Dammit.
Now retired, Mavis enjoys not having to comply with workplace restrictions or to worry about her reputation. As a result, she’s become a bit of a pistol. She often does things she shouldn’t these days. Her children chastise her with “Don’t call me if you get thrown in jail,” a threat she often made to them during their teenage years.
Mavis eases her way toward the light as traffic allows while becoming more and more impatient. Although she has all day, she knows other people have someplace to be. So when she spots a driveway just short of the intersection, she pulls in, parks, gets out, and proceeds to the middle of the intersection. Surely a strange sight—a frail old lady in yoga wear with hair looking like a cat toy—Mavis begins directing traffic. Awkward at first, she soon masters the flow of the process and orders cars this way and that with abandon. The rhythm of the movements reminds her of disco dancing back in 1978. Drivers wave in appreciation. Some honk. Most are laughing.
A police car pulls up. Two cops approach. They try to appear official, although the look of amusement on their faces belies their attempt at an authoritative demeanor.
“Ma’am, you can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
“It’s against the law.”
“Well, you do it then.”
Mavis considers tacking dammit on the end of her proposal. She doesn’t, out of respect for law enforcement and because one of the officers reminds her of her grandson. She ignores them and continues exuberantly waving cars through the intersection, her moves now crisp yet fluid and rhythmic. She resists the temptation to spin, but allows a bit of hip movement to invade the process. She wishes she had a whistle.
Drivers take note of the confrontation, and honking escalates. A grinning old man with the windows down and his arm resting on the door frame winks at Mavis as he cruises through the intersection with the stereo blasting Disco Inferno. A teenager hanging out of a passenger window bangs his hand against the side of the car and yells, “Take ‘em out, Grandma.”
The policemen shift their weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, suggesting they are aware of the sensitivity of the situation. Mavis understands the degree of her leverage and continues her task. But she knows their mission requires they protect her from herself.
They move in closer. Refusing to be distracted from the task at hand, Mavis keeps her eyes on the traffic. She notes a significant decrease in the backup of cars. It has been years since she felt such an intense sense of purpose, and her enthusiasm increases. Movements become even more exaggerated.
The policeman who resembles her grandson turns his head to stifle a laugh, but he and his partner determinedly move even closer as the intersection traffic picks up speed. A car honks its horn as it skirts her backside at a speedy pace. Mavis makes an involuntary hop, and the cops lose their composure—temporarily. After unsuccessfully stifling laughter, their duty to protect and rescue is obvious in their expressions. “You’re not going to tase me, are you?” Mavis asks as her arms swirl in broad circles.
The officers look at each other before responding in unison, “No, we wouldn’t do that.”
Both they and Mavis know that would not be necessary. They could easily lift her tiny frame by the arms and carry her off to safety with her feet circling as though she were riding a bicycle. And they are prepared to do so. Mavis senses this, stares belligerently at them for a moment, then turns and stomps toward her car, arms swinging, shoulders hunched, her head leading her body. Drivers honk like crazy. The officers are relieved; the drivers clearly irritated. Some yell out of their windows.
As Mavis settles into the hot leather seat of her car, she considers how things might have ended differently. A policeman could have said, “Have a seat. Watch your head.” Or she could have been loaded into an ambulance with him asking, “Ma’am, can you describe the car that hit you? Ma’am? Ma’am?”
Although disappointed that her dissidence was cut short, Mavis smiles as she puts the key in the ignition. She always wanted to direct traffic, and she thinks about how sometimes she does things she shouldn’t. As she pulls out of the parking lot, Mavis makes a mental note to pick up a whistle the next time she goes to Walmart.
