The Rearview Great White

This morning I drove my daughter and her friend from Torrance to Knott’s Berry Farm, a forty-minute journey that included the usual Southern California ritual of surrendering a portion of one’s life to the freeway.

On the 91 East, I settled into the diamond lane and soon acquired a companion: a pearl-white Toyota Grand Highlander attached to my rear bumper.

He stayed there for roughly twelve miles.

I wasn’t crawling. The driver simply wanted to go faster, and apparently the laws of physics required that he communicate this desire by positioning several thousand pounds of Toyota close enough to inspect the stitching on my back seat.

About five miles before the Beach Boulevard exit, traffic began slowing. I soon saw why. Two lanes to my right was a California Highway Patrol cruiser.

Everyone underwent the customary freeway conversion.

Brake lights appeared.

Speedometers suddenly became objects of intense scholarly interest.

Drivers who had been doing eighty-five seconds earlier discovered within themselves a deep and previously unsuspected commitment to public safety.

The Grand Highlander, however, had apparently missed the announcement.

He illegally crossed out of the diamond lane, accelerated past me, and continued charging ahead.

I watched with fascination.

Surely he’ll see the CHP.

He didn’t.

Surely he’ll slow down.

He didn’t.

Then he passed the patrol car.

The CHP officer noticed him immediately.

The cruiser pulled out.

It moved behind the Highlander.

And at that moment, the entire psychological structure of the freeway changed.

The Highlander hit the brakes.

Too late.

The lights came on.

This is what I call The Rearview Great White: that primitive surge of terror you experience when a police cruiser appears behind you with its lights flashing and you realize, after several desperate seconds of denial, that you are the intended meal.

There is always that brief period of bargaining.

Maybe he’s after somebody else.

You change lanes.

He changes lanes.

Maybe he needs me to move aside.

You move farther right.

He follows.

The fin is circling.

Imagine swimming a hundred yards offshore at Redondo Beach and seeing the dorsal fin of a great white shark rise from the water behind you.

That’s close enough.

The Highlander driver, who moments earlier had been exercising dominion over the 91 Freeway, was now prey.

I expected to feel some schadenfreude.

I didn’t.

Partly because I’ve driven more aggressively than I should have myself. Moral superiority becomes difficult when the prosecution has access to your own driving record.

More importantly, I didn’t think his behavior quite deserved the emotional death penalty.

On my personal Aggression Scale, I’d give him a six.

Annoying? Absolutely.

Reckless? Certainly.

But I’ve seen eights and nines—the true freeway psychopaths who cross four lanes at ninety miles an hour as though auditioning for a role in Grand Theft Auto: Gardena.

Had the Highlander been an eight, I might have enjoyed watching the CHP cruiser descend upon him like divine judgment.

At six, I mostly felt sorry for him.

I told my passengers that the poor guy was probably hyperventilating.

Because seeing the lights is only the beginning.

Now you have to pull over.

This sounds easy until your nervous system has reverted to that of a gazelle being pursued across the Serengeti. You must find a safe location, activate the turn signal, change lanes, slow down, and demonstrate to the officer that you’re a stable citizen rather than someone about to flee the country.

Then comes the roadside personality transformation.

The aggressive driver disappears.

The tailgater disappears.

The man who fifteen seconds earlier regarded traffic laws as suggestions issued by lesser men is gone.

In his place appears the most agreeable citizen in California.

“Yes, Officer.”

“Absolutely, Officer.”

“Of course, Officer.”

Meanwhile, his shirt is soaked through. His back is glued to the seat. His heart is trying to escape through his sternum.

The Highlander followed the CHP cruiser down the offramp toward Knott’s Berry Farm, and I continued on my way.

No triumph.

No fist pump.

Just sympathy for a man who had spent twelve miles imagining himself the predator.

Then he looked in his rearview mirror.

And saw the fin.