Wrapped In Steel, Motorized And Nasty

I read recently that psychiatric hospitals are among the most dangerous working environments in the United States. Assaults are common. The climate often can be described in a word: “angry.”

I’m a counselor on a locked psychiatric unit in Massachusetts. I’ve been punched, scratched and nearly bitten. I’ve been beaten up by a paranoid schizophrenic who thought I was part of a government conspiracy.

Yet, the unit I work on is not nearly as frightening as the road on which I drive to work each morning. The rages I’ve observed on the unit are nothing compared to the rage of the road.

My job, and the job of my colleagues, is to keep a lid on the pressure cooker in which we work. We are good at what we do. Things are pretty much in control most of the time. Would that I could say the same about what is happening out there on the road.

It’s crazy out there. And it seems to be getting crazier.

I have a confession to make. The rage I’m talking about is not just something I’ve observed. It’s something I’ve experienced.

And believe me, I am aware of the irony of this.

At the hospital, I am keeper of the peace. I mediate disputes. I set limits on those who feel the urge to test limits. I encourage people to vent their anger in appropriate ways. “Talk about it,” I say. Be assertive, but do not under any circumstances cross that solid line that separates assertive from aggressive.

I am the calm one.

Yet here I am on the road to work, mad as hell, nostrils flaring, eyes glaring, yelling and screaming at the idiot whose hood ornament is kissing the sticker on my bumper - the one that reads: “Practice Random Acts of Kindness.”

Recently, I was driving to work. It was about 6:30 a.m. The morning was dark, and the fog was thick. Suddenly, I came upon a runner running not against traffic but with traffic. He was on the same side of the road as I was, running in the same direction I was heading.

The runner-driver protocol is this: Runners run toward oncoming cars.

That the runner was on the wrong side of the road was not what angered me most. As I approached him, I saw that a dog was running with him. The dog was between the runner and me. The runner, at least, was wearing reflective tape. His dog was not. A car was coming toward me and I veered slightly to the right. I could have easily hit the dog.

I love dogs. I have three. Had I struck this man’s dog, I would have felt miserable. As I drove past the runner and his dog, I did what any mature man or any professional mental health care worker would do under the circumstances.

I hit the horn. I made a lot of noise. I yelled things I’d be fired for yelling at work.

A few miles down the road, a car in front of me turned right. The driver failed to use his directional signal. “Idiot!” I yelled.

A few more miles down the road, a sports utility vehicle sped by me going way too fast in the fog. “Idiot!” I yelled.

Another guy passed me. This one was holding a cell phone to his ear. I read recently that motorists who use car phones are much more likely to cause accidents than those who keep two hands on the wheel.

“Idiot!” I yelled, then felt like a jerk. He can’t hear me, I thought.

Then I thought: If I had a cell phone, I could call him and give him a piece of my mind. Then I thought: Don’t be an idiot. This ain’t no phone booth.

What is it about being wrapped in the steel of a well-engineered car? Why do I behave so differently on my way to work than I do when I am at work?

Jack Levin, a sociologist at Northeastern University’s Program for the Study of Violence, offers an answer.

“There is a real illusion of anonymity combined with potency because you have a machine you can command,” Levin writes. “Top it off with the stress of work, and people perhaps feeling insecure there, or with troubles at home, and it can make for a dangerous combination.”

When I am at work, I am not dressed in armor designed by German engineers. If confronted, I cannot run away at speeds up to 120 mph. Thinking fast, not driving fast, will get me safely through the day.

But when the day is done, Lord help me. I have to drive home. And I can’t help but wonder: What kind of day have they had, those other idiots with whom I share the road?