The days are between the Egyptians, on the blackboard and in the newspapers, in the streets and in the heart. And since it is not urgent for me these days to say something political, to take sides and insert a finger as is customary in our places, I thought I would look a little away, to one of the most vibrant and representative Israeli arenas - the road.
It's not just that sticker culture flourished here, and it's no coincidence that all the demonstrations aim to block a main road. The road in Israel, like the automobile, has never been just a means of getting from here to there. In our story, it always holds a symbolic status. With mythical roads like the Ruler Road and Burma Road, and songs like "Gravel Road," "Drive Slowly" and "On the Coastal Road," there was always something larger than life there.
Nowhere else will people cut you the way they would on the road, and in no other situation will they react as badly to a simple comment as they would with their hands on the wheel.
By virtue of life itself, I find myself quite a bit on the local asphalt. On two-wheelers and fours. Traveling to work, picking up children, rushing to meetings. Looking for the back parking of hidden cultural halls in the periphery. By virtue of my luck that I came into the world with him, everything that can happen to a human being happens to me. That's how you become a storyteller. I was once told that it's not good to hold stories like this in your stomach, so here's a fresh compilation, right from the last days of "Coming Good" on the road.
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I went to Ashdod, a city I particularly like. I don't have a good explanation for this, but the beaches of Ashdod are very beautiful to me, the renewal of this city excites me, and the Ashdods themselves pinch something in my heart. Needless to say, I also like the road to Ashdod. What I don't like? I don't like drivers who don't recognize this so-called "right of way" issue.
Although I travel to a favorite place, I love my wife and children a little more, and it is quite important for me to return to them at the end of the day, and if possible then in one piece. So here I am driving to Ashdoda, and at one of the interchanges a large white refrigerated truck comes up to my right. How big? Enough so that trivial matters like the right of way, family cars or drivers like me would be nothing to her.
The truck driver didn't even think to stroke his brake pedal. Why would he do such a thing? So what if he's the one coming from the side and supposed to fit in? He galloped forward with elbow nudges to the left. A true gentleman. I panicked, honked my horn and gave up. Like most of you, I guess, would. Then I saw that on the back of the white truck was printed the name of the catering company that the madman in front of me was leading its products towards some customer, or as it seemed more - fleeing from some angry customer. A phone number appeared there, so at the first stop I dialed it.
"Catering this and that," a rough voice replied.
"Say," I told him, "could you have a truck on the way to Ashdod right now? Because I wanted to say he travels like Keeler."
"Oh, Wallah?" the rough man replied. "Say thank you, it's me, and I had to get you off the road."
The answer, I admit, stunned me. We all make mistakes here and there. We may all carry something that will battering our judgment and judging it. It really does. That's pretty much the situation where people apologize. But an apology did not occur to the food carrier.
"Really? Is that what you needed?" I asked (no doubt the man managed to raise a lot of questions in me). "And who, for example, would raise my children from the moment you took me off the road, as you should? You, Mr. Catering? And what makes you think, doctor, that we're all on the road to restore some lost masculinity? Do you realize that most of us just want to get somewhere, especially home?"
I summed up our cordial conversation with the words: "Listen, Muppet. If you cook the way you do, then let us all be healthy." And the decision I made, not to publish the business name here, was one of the hardest I've made recently. Either way, since that incident I've been trying to eat only things I cooked myself.
• • •
Last week I picked up the boy from camp on the scooter. The heat was heavy, and I was happy to reach our narrow, one-way street. In front of us drove a shuttle car, a kind of minibus that took up all the free space between the rows of parked cars. Suddenly, the vehicle stopped and began to reverse. And towards me. The boy was sitting behind me, and I had nowhere to slip away.
I was sure the driver had some sort of reverse camera, but to my astonishment he kept reversing and didn't see anything. Two-wheelers don't have a rear gear, as we know, and that was stressful. A nightmare, to be honest. I honked and shouted, but in this heat the cab was insulated and well air-conditioned, and he didn't hear anything. I didn't know at what point I was supposed to kick the boy off the scooter and shout for him to run away.
In the meantime, however, several pedestrians passed by, who noticed what was happening, and they were the ones who stopped the van, at the moment when its rear bumper was already sitting on my front wheel. And here I am sitting and writing these words, which means that the event ended peacefully, praise God and our good neighbors.
But that's not what I wanted to talk about here, but about the fact that a moment after we entered the house, hugged and drank something cold, the driver came to our house, frightened and trembling. He did not know his soul out of sorrow. Although there was no damage, he insisted on leaving details and making sure the boy was okay and that I was okay. And I don't know how relevant it is, but this driver was not a Jew, but a resident of one of the villages near Jerusalem.
And I'm honored to admit that it was worth experiencing the stressful nightmare moments behind his car to get to know this nice and cordial man, who reminded me that for every freaky event in this country, there are four, five, or ten, that open your heart.
• • •
As part of the tenth wedding anniversary events, we evacuated one morning and went to do a car test. Just the two of us. The detainee and me. After all, what's more romantic than sitting in two, betting if we'll be sent to renew our license plates this time, and holding hands while that guy from the pit yells at you to play with the steering wheel or pull what Jerusalem calls "Embrace" (really not believing that the British once ruled here). That's how we are - romantics.
And here at the end of the delightful route, after we pulled, lifted, blinked, pressed, and even giggled as is customary while bounced back of the brakes test, it turned out to our amazement that there were no more stickers at the end.
Is. The round stickers that stick from the inside are gone. Thus, in a unilateral move and without any agreement, an anchor and comfort, a beloved habit and a landscape pattern were ripped from our lives. The Test Citation, the Breath of Relief and the Annual Medal of Merit. The stickers have died, and will not return.
What's next? What else will cruel progress swing its scythe? Won't the kids get more surprises at the end of dental treatments? Will you cancel the Afikoman on Passover? Won't they give more "tropical" blood donations? Will junction beggars switch to reusable cups? Unequivocally, you've exaggerated!
As for the license plates, here's a tip for Ba Ba Betov readers: On your way to the car licensing institutes, take a Black Lord with you. Tosh. Paint tube or ink helmet. It's not big money, but the rotation they make on us with the plates must end.
shishabat@israelhayom.co.il
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