Relay

Aurrice Duke

One restaurateur refers to the debility as "August people." But it seems, more and more, that the affliction does not discriminate by month. The flare-ups occur year round, as predictable as acne during pubescence. Tides of people flow into the East End in sync with the rise in temperature. I'd compare the migration to manifest destiny; instead of covered wagons, Hummers, Ferraris, Range Rovers, and designer hybrids blaze a trail, quite often with attitude.

Our economy is seasonal and the swell in population helps keep it afloat and makes life more interesting. What I question is the phenomenon that occurs when drivers slip behind the wheels of cars and toss their manners to the curb.

Is it a rare and latent form of road rage bred by wealth, power, and privilege - whether real or imagined? A belief in entitlement that says the road is more me-me-me-mine than yours? I can't help but wonder when treating others as we would like to be treated became obsolete, something of no more value than, say, shares in Enron.

At the height of the season, traffic is crazy and this year was particularly frenetic. There was this and this to do, that and that to see. There was dinner at so-and-so, cocktails and dessert at this new haunt or that. Oh yes, the beach. The ocean's hypnotic undulation beckoned. It was a tempting thought as I motored down Montauk Highway past the Hess station, Cycle Path bikes, and the Main Beach surf shop. Traffic ahead and behind was light and moving at a brisk 30 miles per hour.

I spied a powder blue convertible Volkswagen waiting for its turn to merge with traffic heading into East Hampton Village. The driver, a young woman with a topknot of hopelessly dyed blonde hair, appeared patient, even taciturn, until she pulled out eager to be on her way. I had two choices. I could slam on my brakes and risk impaling myself on the steering wheel. Or I could continue. I chose the latter and was rewarded with a raised middle finger.

I motored on, unsettled by this turn of events. The raised finger. The near sideswiping. I replayed the scene a few times in my mind and tried to make sense of the driver's behavior. Should I have hit the brakes in order to allow her to join our eastward caravan?

I heard a voice, more like a distant echo. It was Mr. Hamilton, who taught driver's education back in high school. Until there's an opening in traffic, stay put, the voice said. Obviously, the woman behind me was not familiar with that rule.

Some rules are meant to be broken, especially silly ones, but herein lies the problem, at least in terms of traffic: Who decides which rules are frivolous and which have meaning? It would seem that in polite society, treating others as we would like to be treated might take precedence.

As I approached my turnoff, I resisted the urge to roll down my window and express my thoughts. Besides, I reckoned the moment had passed even though she was riding my tail with the tenacity of a cowboy on a bronco. I let it go. Perhaps she was in a hurry or having a bad day. Maybe the golden rule had momentarily slipped from her memory.

I slowed to make my turn. She pulled up beside me and leaned on her horn. "You asshole," she said, and sped off in a huff, leaving a momentary traffic disturbance to make her point. If doubts existed before, it was clear now. She had crumpled the "golden rule" and flicked it from her vehicle. In my rearview mirror I watched it rolling like a tumbleweed down Route 27.

Aurrice Duke is a reporter at The Star.