It had snowed the night before and Monday loomed large as a day that was not going to be pleasant. That thought hit home, or more appropriately his arse, as he fell in the driveway in a pricey blue suit, ruining the suit, bruising his butt and ego, and causing a further delay to the day as he would now have to change before proceeding.
Limping to the car, getting in carefully this time, he plugged the key into the ignition, both in a hurry and still dreading Monday; when he was met with a dead engine. Jack Frost had robbed the batteries energy and it would now need a jump. Oh good, he thought, more time in the cold and on the icy driveway.
The car finally started, he began the slippery crawl to work. At the first opportunity a teenager, going way too fast for the conditions, was nice enough to run a stop sign, cut him off, and almost collide with him. They made eye contact, and the temptation to give the single finger salute was great. He started almost, and then remembered, and withdrew the phalange of force, the finger of revenge.
It didn’t take long before some square chinned, small brained giant of a man in an even more giant and jacked up four wheel drive that did not realize that four wheel drive did not always mean four wheel stop and slid several yards before missing our disgruntled Monday commute soldier by only inches. The middle pillar began to twitch again and the fleshy digit of animus almost shot up another time to deliver its delicate message that is consistent in every nation and the same in every city. But, dang it, he remembered and withdrew.
It was at the next lighted intersection his determination would truly be tested. A ninety year old plus women, in a Buick moving four miles an hour, managed to run the red light without even attempting a stop. The little matriarch of mayhem behind the wheel managed to turn her head, provide a toothy grin as she drive right through the intersection, release her death grip on the steering wheel with her right hand, and send up her own one finger salute.
It was almost too much. The anger exploded in him and he reached to roll down the window so that his one finger wave would be higher and so that he could scream the appropriate salutation as loud as he possibly could. Oh, the agony of it as he remembered and stopped himself.
He finally arrived at work, parked, and made it into the office. A hot cup of coffee later and he found that he felt better. He was not as angry as he should have been. It seemed that not acting on his frustration and allowing his acrimony to rule the drive, had allowed agreeability to sneak in and find refuge. He would have to remember that lesson, even when he wasn’t driving that dastardly car that kept reminding him that morning.
That car had Masonic plates on it and it had proved a strong reminder of his commitment to morality. It was amazing how just that little symbol on his license plate had pulled at his conscience and he was uncomfortable displaying behaviors that were inconsistent with Masonic teachings. He, after all, behind the wheel, displaying that plate, was going to advertise for Masonry, what would that advertisement be?
In the end, Masonry had proved powerful and relevant in his life, with a simple license plate.