I was behind a station wagon at a stop sign.
The driver threw it into park. He and his wife got out and made like they were walking to my car. I lowered my music. She wore a Tweety Bird sweatshirt. I locked my door. The man knocked and pantomimed rolling the window down.
I said, “Yes?”
He waved, though there was no need. “My name is Gary Applesauce and this is my wife, Pilar.” She waved. “We want to know what you would like us to be doing better.”
They had the wide, sloppy faces of friendly people.
“Pardon?” We were using loud voices. I had not rolled the window down.
“You beeped us just now, and you beeped us at Verree and Greene, and Verree and…”
“Bustleton,” the wife finished.
“You wait five minutes at stop signs,” I said. “I need to get to the grocery store.”
He nodded. He was really thinking it over. “I see what you’re saying. And, the beep a few streets ago?”
“That was a mistake,” I admitted. “I was banging my head on the steering wheel and the horn went off.”
I showed them.
“People’s time is important.” I looked in the rearview mirror. A man and two kids squinted at us from their car.
“Can you write it down?” said Mrs. Applesauce.
“Yes!” the man said. “Make a list.”
I said, “I think everyone should get in their cars.”
He frowned. “We want to learn.”
“You want me to write a list of what you could be doing better?”
They clapped.
“I don’t have a pen,” I said.
The wife handed one over.
I keep a pad of paper in my glove compartment for brilliant thoughts.
I wrote:
Stop signs: look left-right-left then go!
Be mindful of drivers behind you.
Then for fun, I wrote: Eat something.
I rolled my window down and handed it to him. When he got to eat something, his eyes filled. “Every time I try to eat I think of my dog. He’s been missing for days.” The Applesauces exchanged looks of sorrow.
“Blitzer,” Mrs. Applesauce said. “How did you know?”
I said, “I made it up.”
The wife clapped. They were clapping people. “Make me a list!”
There were cars adding up behind us. “Share his.”
“I want my own.” She stuck her lip out: an overweight married woman, pouting. “It doesn’t have to be about driving.”
I wrote:
Don’t show up empty-handed.
Err on the side of being nice.
Floss!
She held the list to her chest. “I feel myself learning.”
Then, the driver from the car behind me was there. He wore the sunglasses of a younger man.
“What’s happening?” he said.
“She’s making lists,” said Mrs. Applesauce. “Look.”
He read hers and took his sunglasses off. “I’ll take one.”
“I have to get to the store,” I said.
He said, “We all have to get to the store.”
I wrote:
Be gentle with yourself.
Call her.
Up and down in the window hopped his kids and they wanted lists. I got into it.
“Eat more kale,” I read out loud. Everyone laughed.
A cop slowed and asked what the matter was. The Applesauces explained as I finished the lists for the kids.
For the cop I wrote:
Stop dating women who don’t challenge you.
Listen to happier music.
“Wee-hoo,” he said. “She pegged me.”
The cars behind the car behind me honked. The cop went down the line explaining. I lost track of the Applesauces as my window filled with strangers who wanted their own lists. I handed them out.
Stick to your guns.
Stop harboring hatred toward old people.
You don’t need that many napkins.
Go back to teaching.
After a while Sunglasses poked his head in.
“I called her!” he said. “And she forgave me!”
The crowd cheered, pushed their bellies against my door.
“You’ve had time to enact something?” I said. I said, “I have to get to the grocery store.”
Someone’s voice: “The grocery store is closed.”
Now there were too many people to see out the windshield. Over their heads I glimpsed the streetlights, on. The cop had blocked off the street. A man sold water out of his trunk.
“Has the sun gone down?” I said. “Where are the Applesauces?”
“It doesn’t matter,” a man said. “Lists.”
Be proud of your bright eyes.
Cultivate friends.
Practice saying no.
“Can I have a bottle of water?” I said. “My throat is dry. My pen’s out.”
The man at the trunk yelled, “Five dollars.”
“That seems like a lot for water.”
Someone handed me a pen.
“Write,” the crowd said.
“I have to go now,” I said.
“Bitch!” someone yelled.
I tried to roll up the window. They squeezed their fingers in.
My voice was shaking. “Please get away from my car.”
There were big men in the crowd. The car began to sway with their weight. Snakes hissing at me: lists, lists.
“I’m being elegant!” I said. “I’m asking politely!”
The rocking got worse. I laid on my horn. This seemed to make them angrier because the groaning got louder. There was a scraping sound on my trunk. A boy had climbed on. He brought up his arm, cheeks glinting in the streetlights. In his hand, a brick.
I looked down and had time to read the contents of my grocery list before it hit:
Bread, eggs, milk.
