That's Not the Shaggy Dog...Just a Georgian Driver

For those of you from anywhere but the Southern United States, there is something you should know about Southern, specifically Georgian, drivers before planning your next vacation to the illustrious South: DMV laws do not apply to us. (I used to say "them," but after living in Georgia for close to ten years, I must align myself with the locals, though I pride myself on my driving skills). Sure, cities everywhere have their speed demons, weavers, and brake-checkers, but the day-to-day drivers experienced in small, rural Southern towns are an experience not to be missed nor to be witnessed by the faint of heart. 

Turn signals are obsolete here as is looking for oncoming traffic before entering a lane. Center turn lanes are just extra lanes to be used for speeding past you. While we do have drivers who pride themselves on knowing where their accelerator is and using it quite frequently, it is more often the case that one finds oneself behind an elderly, handicapped couple out to enjoy a leisurely Sunday drive on a Tuesday morning when one is running late for work. Vehicles are not always the conventional type: there are some days when I see more tractors on the road than cars. Rednecks race each other from one stop light to the next and back again as a diversion on Friday evenings; I have personally witnessed several drag races outside the local coffee shop that lasted a whole five seconds due to the close proximity of our downtown stoplights. I thought I'd seen it all until last Friday evening...

Living in the South, a common lawn decoration seen is old vehicles, particularly from the 1950s. These once-beautiful, antique vehicles are as popular a lawn decor as flamingos are to a Floridian retiree. It breaks an old car lover's heart like mine to pieces to see these cars rusted out and falling apart while being a home to raccoons, mice, birds, and God knows what other creatures who have stumbled upon their peeling paint and holey upholstery. Last Friday, I was fortunate enough to see one of these vehicles up close and personal because it was driving straight towards me as I waited to turn. At first sight, I was excited because I thought an antique car show was in town. As it came closer, I realized this car must have come straight out of someone's front yard because it was peeling, broken, cracked, and slightly leaning to one side while chugging smoke out of the exhaust pipe. Wondering how the car was even able to run, I gave a start as I saw what looked like a bear driving the car. My first thought was wondering where the circus was, my next was if they were making another Shaggy Dog re-make. 

As the car slowed to turn, my eyes took in a backseat full of bird's nests, boxes, crates, cobwebs, and leaves all blowing around (and out) of the car. My eyes traveled to the driver, and my original assumption of the car being driven by a bear was quickly explained: the driver of the vehicle was a man who must have been well over 300 pounds, had no shirt, and possessed the longest, curliest hair I have ever seen (we're talking Absalom here, folks). This quickly helped me connect the dots as to why the car was leaning so much to the driver's side as I'm sure his rear end was only a few inches off the pavement. As he turned in front of me, he gave the traditional, nonchalant, pointer finger wave. Or so I thought. As I turned behind him, I began to realize that his finger was his turn signal. At every stop sign, this man stuck his arm out the window and pointed which direction he was going as the turn signal wires were, I'm sure, currently unavailable due to being chewed by resident rats. It wouldn't have surprised me to see a raccoon sitting on the man's shoulder picking and eating fleas off of him. Who knows? Perhaps he lived in the car too. Unfortunately, his pointer finger sent him down a different road than I, so I did not get to see my hairy friend's final destination. Maybe to the happy hunting grounds of the vet clinic for a rabies shot. Possibly to a used car lot. Hopefully to Wal-Mart to buy a shirt and hair clippers. Or perhaps you may see him just as he was on your next vacation to the good ol' South.