Opinion: Ask that man over there
As everyone knows, men always know where they are going, so it is not necessary for a male to ask other males, or, heaven forbid, a woman, the directions to any place.
The truth of this was driven home to me a few weeks ago when I was motoring to Sanger to attend a very important meeting.
Before leaving Madera, I asked a person I know who lives in Sanger how to get to his town.
“Just go east on King’s Canyon Road, and turn right at the first stoplight,” the friend said. “That’s Bethel Avenue. Then, all you have to do is keep going south.”
“Just what I thought,” I said.
As soon as I got on the road, I began to wonder if my Sanger friend actually knew where to go. There happened to be two women in the car, and I didn’t want to get things mixed up.
Well, we went zipping down the 99, when one of the women said, “Wasn’t that Kings Canyon Road we just passed?”
No,” I said. “Some people take that exit on the assumption they are headed for East Kings Canyon Road, but we want to go on West Kings Canyon Road in order to find North Bethel Street.”
The other woman in the car looked out the window over the rims of her glasses.
“We’re going to wind up in Mendota,” she said.
As it happened, the idiots who designed the East Kings Canyon Road put all the overpasses in the wrong places, and before I knew it, we were headed for the Fresno airport.
“You’ve gotten us lost,” said the woman who kept looking over the rims of her glasses. Why don’t you pull into that service station and ask that man standing by the gas pump where Sanger is and how to get there? I’ll bet he knows.”
I had to sigh.
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “What makes you think some doofus who works in a service station know how to get to Sanger. In fact, he’s probably lost himself.”
“Ah, so,” the woman said, looking over the rims of her glasses. “You do admit we’re lost after all.”
“I will show you we aren’t lost,” I said. “Since you’re such a smarty pants, why don’t you go over to that man and ask him where Sanger is. I’ll bet he sends us back where we’ve been and tells us to go south on Bethel Street instead of north.”
“All right,” I said. “Let’s see.”
So, I got on the highway, but noticed I had driven into the wrong lane, and headed straight for the airport.
“You’re going to have to go all the way through the airport, then swoop around and head back south,” said the lady, looking at me over her glasses.
“Nah,” I said, “all we have to do is follow one of those cars. They probably know a quick way out of the airport.”
What makes you think that?” she asked.
“Just watch me,” I said.
I pulled up in front of one of the airline terminals and stopped. A fellow in a uniform came right over and motioned for the lady to roll down her window.
“You can’t park here,” he said to the lady.
“I know it,” she said, “but I am riding with this imbecile, and he hasn’t the faintest idea where he is going. By the way, you don’t know how to get to Sanger, do you?”
“Is that one of those sewing machines,” he asked. “The Sanger sewing machine? My mom had one of those.”
Eventually, the fellow in the uniform told us how to get out of the airport, and which way to go to get to Road 180, and where to pull off to get to Sanger.
Naturally, it had been a man who knew where to go. We finally got to the Bethel intersection, about two hours late.
“Now where?” said the lady.
“I thought you would know,” I said.
