Dear Mr. White Ford Bronco,
It had to be a white Ford Bronco. What else would you be driving? What kind of a person goes to the dealership and says, “I’m looking to purchase a white vehicle, something that pairs well with fleeing law enforcement. I’m looking for the kind of automobile that 95 million viewers watched O.J. Simpson (chauffeured by his friend Al “AC” Cowlings) use to attempt a 96-kilometre low-speed getaway from police in June 1994. Do you have anything like that?”
Well, now we have an answer. The kind of person who did what you did.
To be fair, maybe the Bronco wasn’t your first choice. Maybe the Volkswagen dealership was out of beige 1968 Beetles (the car driven by 1970s serial killer Ted Bundy).
Don’t mistake me. You’re no O.J. Simpson. Not even close (unless you’re a professional football player). Others have committed far worse transgressions. You hurt no one, only feelings were bruised. Nothing serious happened. I’ve seen far worse.
No, rather, it’s the nature of what you did and the style with which you did it that all those who witnessed your act will remember. Yours was a beautifully obscene moment. It was a work of art. It was a performance piece played out on a city street. All the road’s a stage, and all the drivers and pedestrians merely players; they have their exits and their entrances; and we’ll always have you in your white Ford Bronco at the intersection of Avenue Road and Davenport Road at around 3 p.m. on June 13.
Allow me to set the stage.
It was a sunny afternoon. I was driving home after having lunch with my editor. Traffic was abysmal, as it is every day, at every hour and every minute in Toronto. The streets were riddled with construction sites with nary an actual construction worker to be seen. The work sites stood still, silent, as if frozen in time, as if all the workers had suddenly thrown down their tools and fled. They reminded me of the ghostly stillness of the ruins in Pompeii.
Looking east along Davenport Road at Avenue Road in Toronto. Two signs clearly show left turns aren't allowed during the day.The Globe and Mail
I was in the left lane driving east on Davenport. I was in the left lane because I knew it was illegal to turn left from Davenport onto Avenue, Monday to Saturday between 7:30 a.m. and 6:30 p.m. The light ahead was green but as I drove, the left lane came to an abrupt halt. I sat behind a line of three cars. Horns blared and a harsh din filled the air.
I searched for the cause and spotted your white Ford Bronco. Your left turn signal was on. A steady stream of cars driving westbound rolled past. There was no way that you were going to be able to make a left until the light had changed from yellow to a blazing red. The drivers behind you, who weren’t going to be able to drive through the intersection on that cycle, sat in bewildered fury.
What were you doing? Didn’t you see that it was illegal to turn left? Perhaps you were a tourist, a visitor and did not realize that left turns were not permitted.
Horns groaned in a symphony of discontent.
The mystery was soon solved. Your left arm appeared from your drivers’ side window. You paused, as if to savour the moment, as if to transfix it in place and then you leisurely extended your middle finger and kept the other fingers curled down.
You weren’t confused. You knew exactly what you were doing and to whom you were doing it. You were turning left and the rest of us could follow your finger.
It was a stirring moment. Your simple gesture articulated not only your own personal contempt, but the contempt which the entire city, nay, the entire country, holds for its citizens. With the flipping of your bird, you told each one of us where we could go and how we could get there. You were going to do what you wanted – in this case an illegal left turn – when you wanted, how you wanted. We were not worthy of anger, only a curious passing contempt.
You drew your hand back as the light turned fire engine red. A few stragglers drove through the intersection going west. Finally, you made your left turn and drove north up Avenue Road in your white Ford Bronco, leaving the rest of us stuck at the red light. Unlike O.J. Simpson’s flight in a white Ford Bronco, there were no cameras to record it.
And your Mona Lisa was complete.
Drive on Mr. White Ford Bronco. Drive on. Park in disabled spots and blow a sanguine raspberry to those who object. Make seven illegal left turns and dismiss the angry mob with a flick of your wrist. Do unto others and just keep doing. Have the last laugh at every intersection.
Just remember Dr. Faustus Ford Bronco, “Fools that will laugh on earth, most weep in hell.”
I guess we’ll see you there. Be sure to bring your middle finger.