The Particular Way In Which I Am Crazy:
A tale from my malfunctioning obsessive-compulsive brain.
A long day of work led into a night spent lounging on my friend’s couch, throwing around my unsolicited two cents as we watched dailies from his TV show — a big-budget, ratings-magnet of a procedural that he shoots with icy backlight and diffused macro lenses. I drove home on the 101, my Carolla tiredly commiserating with the handful of other cars making the late night trek out of the valley. I played it safe in the right lane — coasting a good distance behind a maroon Prius. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the Prius threw on its hazards and pulled over to the shoulder.
In this situation, the normal brian would think: The car was probably making a noise, or maybe it popped a tire or blew a headlight. But my reaction? “Oh my god, this guy is one of those random-victim freeway snipers — I know because I was just watching a damn procedural — and right now he’s cocking his shotgun and aiming it out his window and I’m half a second from driving by and becoming his next casualty, oh my god.”
I held my breath as I sped up to pass the car — and found myself miraculously free of fatal head wounds. But my brain, refusing to admit that the guy probably just had engine trouble, once again went worst-case-scenario. “I guess the guy’s methods aren’t as random as I’d thought. Maybe he only shoots pick-up trucks or BMWs, or cars with stupid vanity plates.”
Even now, two days later, I’m not entirely convinced the wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. Though there is some pretty compelling evidence to quiet my fucked-up neurotransmitters: Prius owners just aren’t snipers.
1 year ago