I am a pacifist. Totally, impractically, naively against all forms of violence. I have never hit another human being. And no one has ever hit me. (I am exempting my belt-wielding father who hit all kinds of things because, well, that kind of thing was accepted in the early ‘60’s). True, I possess a temper that can flare hot and impulsive as a gusher, but it never explodes through a gripped fist, a baseball bat, or (god forbid) a trigger.
For thirty-two years I’ve lived in a neighborhood, Strawberry Hill, whose 1, 2, and 3-family houses used to be inhabited by working families, predominately Italian, on the furthest edge of Cambridge. As far as you could get from hip Harvard Square within the same zip code. Back in 2018 I marked Strawberry Hill’s evolution from an enclave of electricians, mail carriers, and fire fighters, to one of consultants and professionals, and though I acknowledge to being a pioneer in that transition, at least I’ve never succumbed to my environs’ most blatant sign of limousine liberalism: I don’t own a Tesla.
Today, any lingering hipness in Harvard Square is corporate illusion, while my dual-Tesla-owning neighbors have fixed a sticker to their bumper: “I Bought this Tesla Before Elon Went Crazy.” But the more worrisome change is personal. I am possessed by a wanton desire to do violence.
The Cybertruck has invaded. And I want to beat on it.
It is an established fact that our society has grown less civil; less tolerant; more enraged. And our vehicles match this descent. The bodies have grown bigger, the windows smaller, the grills angry. Remember the 1970’s Pacer? So much glass, it looked like The Jetson’s space cars. Compare them to a 2021 Lexus, with its pinched grill, mammoth sides, and narrows windows. A tank for soccer moms.
Lexus’ are definitely anti-social. But they’re meek compared to the turbo-tanked Tesla Cybertruck. How can these things even be allowed on our streets?
Two of the beasts have arrived in my neighborhood. I see them often, their cold grey steel and slot lights and sharp angles taking up too much space on our narrow pavement, menacing in their domination threats. Every time I see them, my blood pressure surges, and I yearn for a bat. I’ve never been called upon to test my testosterone levels, but I’d gladly have it measured while beating the crap out of those unwelcome machines.
The good news is that I don’t carry a bat. So the Cybertruck owners in my neighborhood (those mother$&*#@ers) are safe from me doing any damage beyond mere imagination.
The even better news is that, apparently, Cybertrucks are lousy vehicles. They’ve all been recalled due to accelerator problems (all bullies have accelerator problems). Some have electrical problems that result in random shut downs. A few have even gotten stuck and have been towed out of mud by, gulp, Ford pickups.
Like so many swaggering bullies of our era, Tesla Cybertrucks are wimps hiding a false coat of armor. Apparently, their tough looking steel finish is easy to scratch and stain; difficult to clean. They can actually be damaged by a conventional car wash! I’ve been thinking, maybe, I might toss an egg at one and give its over-inflated owner a buffing challenge.
But in truth, I’m too much of a pacifist for even that. Besides, I’m take solace in the hope that the Cybertruck will wither to insignificance under the weight of its own delusions of importance.
The Awkward Pose 