Madman at the Wheel

The savage look in those eyes was enough to send chills down my spine; the kind of look one might expect to glare from behind the door of a padded room. From a birds-eye view, it must have looked like excited children playing with Matchbox cars, sending them into a chaotic frenzy, careening every which way.

Cars were separating on the two-lane in front of us as if an invisible child’s hands were effortlessly pushing them to the left—into the highway median and into oncoming traffic in the other lanes, or to the right—straight into a steep embankment recently dug by heavy equipment. The driver of the old green car was close enough that our eyes made contact through the two windshields. I could have reached out and touched him.

Seconds slowed to a crawl. His eyes were wild and intent on destruction. His blond hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days and his young face looked almost crazily gleeful. I could have smelled his breath if the glass barriers had not existed; the metal torpedo was aimed right at us, and we could not have been more than 20 ft. away from one another. The physics of Newton’s First and Second Laws guaranteed the torpedo was not only going to continue in its straight path but continue at its constant velocity until it hit its target. My sister Geri and I, in my black Ford Aerostar Van, were its present target.

There was nowhere to go. There was no time. In a split second, observations were recorded and assessments made. I was not going to let this deliberate madman hit and kill me and my sister. I knew my minivan was most likely going to turn upside down on the embankment to the right of me if I could get out of his way. The 44 oz. strawberry lemonade slushy in my hand had to go somewhere as quickly as I could throw it. I grasped the steering wheel with both hands. As my van left the roadway at a speed barely less than 55 mph, I had no trouble guiding it toward the embankment. I missed the madman’s old green Dodge and the other vehicles in front and to the sides of me. I maneuvered the dirt ditch without flipping. When we glided to a smooth stop and got out of the van that had incredulously made its way back onto the side of the pavement, my sister and I immediately knew who had been in charge.

It was all too deliberate, slow, and calculated to be in real time. It was in someone else’s dimension of time. It wasn’t luck, chance, coincidence, or karma. And it wasn’t me. Something supernatural vibrated every cell of our bodies. We stood there staring at each other, awestruck, adrenaline still pumping. Except for the icy, sticky slush all over my sister, we were fine. At first silently and then aloud, we gave thanks to God.