His car, an ancient compact with rusting plates and a sagging back bumper, was two cars ahead of mine blocking my lane as he and I and the car between us waited for the oncoming traffic to clear so that we could turn left. He was taking no chances. He would not take advantage of breaks in the traffic. He waited, unmoving. The car behind him began to honk its horn. Still he did not start. Finally the light changed, he accelerated around the corner very slowly, the motor revving unmercifully high. The car struggling to approximate the demands being made upon it.

I understood why he was unwilling to chance an occasional break in the traffic. I would not have trusted that wreck to move when I wanted it to move either. I saw him, an Asian man looking deliberately straight ahead, ignoring the angry honking from the car behind, as a small boy sitting next to him twisted in his seat, obviously asking his father what was going wrong.

My dad bought his first car in 1950. It was a thirty-eight Plymouth, a very old car. He bought the car to drive to my school. Prior to the time I entered the seminary as a freshman in high school he had not needed a car. We moved around Minneapolis quite a bit, but we always chose a house within a couple of blocks of the Chicago-Fremont streetcar line, the line that went both through downtown and also close to my dad's work.

So now he owned his first car, a forty-five year old man with a fourteen year old son, and he was quite proud of it despite the fact that it was definitely different than the other cars gathered on the school grounds. He was so proud of it that he invited me to ride with him as he circled the school buildings. We had nearly returned to our starting point when the back door fliped open with a sharp bang, perhaps, or perhaps not, related to the new Buick we were passing. The rear door on the old Plymouth opened from the front of the door so if we had clipped the Buick it would not have been a glancing blow, but a sharp and solid smack.

My dad pulled the car over. He looked sick. We climbed out and walked back to the Buick to talk to the owner and his seminarian son. They were arguing with each other. The seminarian said that the dimple on the front fender was new, caused by my dad. The owner was saying that he was sure that that dent had been there before. The kid said that that could not be, the car was two weeks old for god's sake. His father said he was sure that the dent had appeared last week and how would somebody who had just seen the car for the first time know anything about it anyway.

The father won the argument. Coaxed my dad back to the Plymouth. Waved off my dad's willingness to pay for a Buick fender that cost more than his own car. Assured him that he had done nothing and not to worry about it.

I watched Charlie, this man in whom I had so much reason for pride, this man who for me was the final statement in virtue and strength, I watched him regather his dignity, pass beyond his fear, regain his composure.

I did not honk at the Asian man. I was left behind at the stop sign but I did not honk at him. Dignity is so fragile for so many people that I would do nothing to compromise his, particularly in front of his son. I know I am making up who he is out of my own experience. He may not have been a recent immigrant to this land. He may not have been nervous, as I think he was. He may not have been embarrassed, as I would have been. He may not have bragged to his son about the great deal he had made on this car. I may be making all this up, this sad and precious fellow-feeling I am experiencing.

And when I see somebody called to task in public for some error, when I see somebody lectured for missing a due date, when I see the injudicious red marks scrawled all over somebody's writing, I may be making up the feelings of dignity on the edge of destruction. I may, but I expect I am not. So I don't honk at battered Hondas. I intend to add not one more pin to prick other peoples' balloons. Life provides pins enough already.

I do not curse the brand new Buick either, even when he is dragging his bottom down the freeway at fifty miles per hour blocking me from getting to an appointment on time.

My dad sat behind the wheel at the end of visiting hours, preparing to maneuver the Plymouth back to North Minneapolis with rear doors now securely locked. He turned to me and said: "He was lying you know." My mother expostulated that she doubted that a seminarian would lie. "The kid wasn't lying. His father was lying. I know full well we put that dent in his fender. He was just too kind a man to stick me with the bill."

So I don't honk at new Buicks either. I never know how worthy of my deepest respect the driver might be.

The author of this essay is John Cowan. He has written two books of similar essays: Small Decencies and The Common Table Each is approximately 160 pages in paperback. To purchase either book by mail send a check for $10 per book to him at 1498 Goodrich, St. Paul, MN 55105. Price will be negotiated for any order over 20 books. If you wish to discuss consulting or speaking engagements or attendance at a workshop he may be reached by e-mail. His address is Johnedie@aol.com

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