Monday, May. 26, 1947

Let Yourself Go

Avenida Ejercito Nacional, stretching out through Mexico City's glittery west side suburbs, is tree-shaded and quiet. One afternoon last week its peace dissolved in sounds familiar to every North American --the scream of braked tires, the clatter and bang of a rear-end collision. A sleek new Oldsmobile, with a pretty girl at the wheel, had smashed into a new Buick.

The girl jumped out, took one look at her smashed grill and headlights, and shrieked at the round little driver of the Buick. He was a stupid lout, cried she, and he probably sold his wife's virtue. His answer was two brief words: both meant that she was in his opinion a woman of the streets. The girl got her car into gear, backed it out, drove ahead of the Buick and then went into reverse. There was a horrible crunch, but she had aimed badly. Now her Oldsmobile had a big hole in the trunk; the Buick was intact.

Not so its driver: his Latin blood was up. The little man shouted Spanish curses that would have debased a Hemingway hero. Then he shot his car into reverse. The girl saw what was coming, jumped from her car and stood on the curb. "Policia! Policia! Socorro! Socorro!" (Police! Help!), she screamed. With a vengeful snarl, the Buick butted into the Oldsmobile's rear, slammed the back seat into the front" and shattered all the windows.

It was the girl's turn. She sprinted to her battered car, started the engine and set off after the other driver as he drove off. For a block and a half she kept to the chase, but her gallant car had gas pouring from its ripped tank and it was going out of action. It sputtered, stopped.

The victorious driver saw it all. He turned back, headed for the Oldsmobile and hit it a great side-swiping blow. The Olds caromed off the curbing. Two tires flew into the air. Proud as a victorious fighter pilot, the little man tooted his horn and drove away.

Except for the girl's soft sobbing, Avenida Ejercito Nacional was quiet again.

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