If you’re not in the parade, you watch the parade. That’s life.
~Mike Ditka

I have a real talent for zipping in and out of traffic. I slip into a steady stream of cars, nearly unnoticed. I find ways onto exit ramps like a knife through butter. Unfortunately, my strange talent has also gotten me into some embarrassing situations.

It all began when I was sixteen and started driving. In my impatience to get somewhere I inserted myself into numerous wedding processions without knowing it. It wasn’t until the cars behind and in front of me started to honk that I caught on, having usually missed the first car, the one that had all the cans, streamers and writing on it. The first few times it happened I was embarrassed. But after that I just joined in, honked my horn and pretended to be part of the procession. Little did I know that was only preparation for a much greater embarrassment.

This strange ability to “merge” kept getting me into all sorts of fascinating motorcades. I began to watch for the noisy wedding processions to avoid them but then found myself graduating into funeral formations. I always seemed to miss the lead car — the hearse — and with so many cars driving with their lights on at all times of day, how was I to know? It was only the sedate pace of my fellow drivers, and the numerous cars pulled to the side of the road in a gesture of respect for the dearly departed, that finally penetrated my brain and told me that I’d done it again. I would snap on my lights and try to look appropriately bummed out.

My merging “issues” continued, despite my attempts to be more attentive, and then I truly outdid myself with the mother of all merges. It was the Fourth of July and I was visiting my parents at their campsite along the Mississippi River. We had a nice day but it was hot and humid, and I decided to drive back home in the early afternoon because severe storms were forecast for later that day. I hated getting caught in severe weather and I didn’t want to weather the storm at the campsite.

Commending myself for being responsible and leaving early, I set off with my windows rolled down because I didn’t have air conditioning in my fifteen-year-old car. I sat on a large beach towel so that the vinyl seats didn’t scorch my legs. Each time I stopped at an intersection I squirted myself with a plant mister. My hair was a fright: the salty sweat mixed with the not-so-clean campground water in the mister, but I didn’t care. It was hot!

I drew up to a stop sign in a small town and waited for a caravan of old cars to go by. The last old car passed in front of me and I saw my chance. I pulled into traffic, glad that the car club hadn’t taken forever to go by. Sometimes those old cars only went a few miles an hour and these had been fairly slow but there had only been about ten to fifteen of them. I squirted myself with the plant mister and hung my head out the window a little to cool down after sitting for five minutes in the heat.

I began to notice people sitting on the sides of the main street in lawn chairs, facing the road. I glanced around nervously as I recognized all the signs of a Fourth of July parade beginning. Man, was I glad to get through that before it started.

Suddenly an air horn blast from behind me sent my bladder into overdrive. I felt a surge of panic as I looked into the rearview mirror. Clowns of every description cavorted, capered and cartwheeled behind my car followed by a swarm of Shriners on tiny motorbikes, zipping in and out of traffic, putting my merge skills to shame. A fire engine was next, lights flashing, firemen waving.

I looked ahead with enlightened eyes at the really old cars in front of me, the band banging drums and blasting horns in front of them, and the lead vehicle, the one I had missed as usual, was a police cruiser with red, white, and blue lights twirling. I had really done it this time!

I felt sick to my stomach as clowns skipped next to my car, alternately peeking in at me and throwing candy at the spectators. People pointed from the curb, laughing. I was convinced I was the object of ridicule. (I had nightmares about clowns for weeks afterward.)

There was no way to turn off until the next main thoroughfare because the alleys and side roads were blocked with the laughing lawn-chair people. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. I sat with my frightful clown-like hairdo in my little car with no air conditioning, going five miles per hour in 100-degree heat.

Remembering the wedding processions and funeral lineups I had been in, I did the only thing a self-respecting merge-challenged person could do.

I smiled and waved at the crowd.

~Karen J. Olson