The glass of your windshield hides nothing, and like an open window, anyone is your voyeur and you are theirs. Only you don’t take advantage of this free entertainment. You don’t notice the others and they don’t notice you -- only your vehicle; your extension of self. It behaves exactly as you tell it and you are judged by its behavior. But when traffic stops-- either a jam or a red light -- it no longer conceals you. You, the puppeteer, are exposed to the eyes all around, but still, no one sees. Except me.
We’re all leaving jobs on our way to our homes, to engage in our routine activities, a repeating cycle like a performance each night, never differing. A red light is intermission. The engagement with others through our vehicular avatar ceases; introspection begins, water breaks are taken, and hair and makeup are touched up.
I paused for a moment during intermission and looked up, seeing you behind me in the mirror, realizing that here we show ourselves completely unscripted, and I feel a connection with your unrehearsed gestures. They don’t know anyone is watching and in that moment I feel together and apart. How ironic that when we’re surrounded by an audience, separated by nothing but glass, we feel so totally alone and unjudged that we’re free to stare blankly and unfocused at nothing, mouth agape. But that’s the magic of traffic, it requires just enough focus to resume the commute, but allows enough detachment to lose character.
