Arma-Dead-O

At least a part of the armadillo looked at peace. 

Well, maybe not entirely at peace, but certainly not struggling anymore. 

All the grizzlier details aside, I spent more time thinking about him than I thought I would as I drove home the other night from the beach. Here it was, a spectacular September evening, where I had the good fortune to swim in water that felt so good, you didn't know where it ended and you began. You simply felt like you belonged. Inextricably linked in the best kind of way. 

Roadkill, or the more politically correct version, "things that no longer live because of things with four wheels," is pervasive on roadsides and perhaps more humiliatingly along the center lane of major freeways. That meant the creature was halfway there. There was a light at the end of the tunnel. Unfortunately, that tunnel turned out to be a Chevy Suburban driven by a woman with six screaming kids who never saw it coming. 

Something about it bothered me deeply. Armadillos didn't rank anywhere near the top of my favorite creatures here on the funny little blue ball in the middle of nothing. I liked jaguars, dolphins, otters, and other cuddly-looking creatures (as cuddly as a jaguar can be from afar). I generally had no more interest in strange little creatures who, through the evolutionary lottery, were issued flak jackets to wear 24/7. I found myself wondering how different that exit was for him than it would be for me. I hoped mine didn't entail an 80 mph collision, but the more troubling thing was the moment the lights went off. 

Death is a funny copilot. It feels terrifying and trivial at the same time. It's a foregone conclusion, and yet it feels impossible that all good things (and bad things) must come to an end. 

I was here now, and I was grateful. Grateful for family and friends. Grateful for the ocean, the setting sun, and Jimmy drifting through the speakers. 

I'll bet the armadillo was grateful for something too.

Maybe he was grateful for his family, too, as he be-bopped across the interstate. Maybe he was out running an errand for his family, taking care of the little armadillos, or maybe he was running contraband to a gang of iguanas across 95. 

It made me realize that none of us really know anything about anyone else. We can pretend we know them because we see them in the open, where we are subject to their insecurities, hopes, fears, and foibles. Everyone is on display and the vast majority of what we see is an act put on by the person for our benefit. 

If you rode with me for 1,000 miles, you'd have a different take on me than if you saw me through your window as you flew past. I wish I got to know more people in that 1,000-mile context, and I wondered if road trips were the way to end all the wars, or start a lot more of them. 

Perhaps the next reality show hit could involve strangers with two diametrically opposed viewpoints sharing a camper for a cross-country trip.

Think of the drama!

An elephant and a donkey. 

A Steeler and a Raven. 

They would gnash at one another like big cats trying to dominate the small space, and once they had both marked their territory, they could get down to the business of driving, tearing each other limb from limb, belittling the other's beliefs, team colors, or accents. 

Except I don't think that would be what would happen. 

I think that by mile 100, someone's guard would come down, and a shared interest would break the ice. 

"I gotta stop and get some chocolate."

"Wait, I like chocolate too?!" 

Beyond the easy-to-find differences, such as the color of our skin or the logo on our shirt, it becomes harder to find the others as we dig deeper. We might like the same type of patio furniture, or the same sprinkles on our ice cream. 

There's always a similarity there; people just stopped taking the time to find it. 

I wondered what the similarity I had was with the armadillo, and it didn't take long to sort it out. 

He was probably scared at the end, and I would be too.