People That I Can't Hang Out With (Part I)

You know the scenario. You're driving down the highway late at night, just trying to make it home before an uncontrollable need for sleep overtakes you.  When suddenly a truck crests the hill in front of you, traveling in the opposite direction. Oh, but this is no ordinary truck. No, this one bathes you in a powerful white light, so powerful that you swear you might be starring right into the Sun itself. You quickly shield your eyes and try not to swerve into the ditch. You paw frantically at the visor overhead, hoping that lowering it will provide some form of relief, and maybe even allow you to return both hands to the steering wheel. Not that safety is even a possibility anymore - no matter which direction you look all you see now are giant white blurs where your vision used to be. You wonder for a moment if the damage might be permanent. If your little rods and cones might have been subjected to a permanent and unrepairable harm. Then, of course, you chuckle to yourself for having used the term 'little rods'.

But this is no joke. Far from it. In fact, you're about to make the biggest mistake of them all. Surely this other vehicle has made a simple error, you think to yourself, and it can all be resolved with one quick gesture. That's right, you reach over and give him a quick flick of your high beams, just to let him know that he has accidentally left his on. You're not trying to be rude. He just forgot to flick his off when he came over the hill, and your friendly reminder will let him know.

Oh, but you couldn't be more wrong.

Unbeknownst to you, this is the exact moment that he's been waiting for. The mistake that he was secretly hoping you would make from the moment he bought those Xenon High Intensity Discharge (go ahead and giggle again…) super-duty, aircraft-landing-gear spec bulbs at the store. The moment that gives him more joy than anything else in the world. You see, now he gets to reveal the truth. Those were his low beams. And, as punishment for your insolence, you get to feel the wrath of the two-headed monster that he calls head lights. He gladly reigns it down upon you: the full brunt of that Xenon fury. The light of a thousand cars combined. You recoil in fear. Your face melting like one of the Nazi's at the end of Raiders of the Lost Art when they opened the Ark of the Covenant. You pray for it to end quickly, for a return to the low beams that - although annoying - were far more bearable then the hellish glare that you are currently meant to endure.

But that relief does not come. The high beams remain on. You are made to suffer every last second of it. To pay the full price for even suggesting that his meagre low beams could in fact be his high beams. As you cower in your driver's seat, begging for sweet relief, he sit's high in his captain's chair, surveying the breadth of his power with a smirk. As your vehicles pass by one another, he catches a quick glimpse of your squint and his lips curl into a full-fledged grin. His actions have been justified, his manhood reaffirmed.  He strokes his Ed Hardy shirt lovingly and attempts his best Oppenheimer impression, smugly declaring to himself:

"I am become death, the destroyer of worlds."

As if he were no longer behind the wheel of his truck at all, but rather standing in the dirt at Trinity, watching the mushroom cloud of the world's first nuclear bomb slowly dissipate. Only Oppenheimer said it with a sense apprehension - an understanding of the full gravity that the ramifications of this power might yield. The destruction that he had just unleashed upon the world. Unfortunately, the man in the truck feels none of this. Instead, he feels proud. Superior. Omnipotent. He welds the brightest head lights in all the free world, and the mere mortals that dare face him will all eventually kneel before them.

But the moment has now passed. And that's all that it was: a moment. In your rear view mirror, his truck disappears into the night, searching for it's next victim. Slowly you begin to regain what remains of your vision. And, as the world draws back into focus, all you can do is smile, content in the realization that you're not him. That you'll never be him. That you're better than him. He'll never understand. Never consider for a second that he was the lesser man in that interaction. But that's ok. You know the unspoken contract that exists between men. The underlying agreement upon which all of society is founded. That one man should not seek to better himself if it is to the detriment of others. Sure, he can see further down the road at night. But at what cost? His ability to see is more important than yours. More important than everyone's. And he will let us lesser men know about it each and every time that we have the gall to suggest otherwise with a quick flash of our brights.

He could never accept the dull, yellow head lights that we all agreed were a reasonable compromise for every person sharing the road. But that's why we're a different breed. We would never put ourselves above our fellow man like that. And that is why we can live along side each other as equals. Because we understand the effects that our actions have on one another. We are willing to compromise so that the world is a better place for everyone, not just ourselves. And that is why the guy that not only buys extra bright headlights, but also wears them as a badge of honour, is a person that not only deserves our scorn, but also our pity.

But it's also why he's a person that I can never hang out with.