Is Fight or Flight The Best Response?
How a white-haired old-guy can cause a tough young-guy to take flight
The dump truck driver arrived (late) in front of our house with the load of gravel on a Saturday morning. It immediately became apparent that he was having a Bad Day and that was somehow my fault or, at least, my problem.
Trying to improve the tense situation imposed on me, I cheerfully said, “Hi, I’m John,” which seemed like a reasonable greeting from a customer to a service provider.
He said, “Same.”
Confused, I asked, “Shane?”
“No, the same.”
I looked at him without speaking.
He sneered and chirped, “My name is John.”
I smiled because one would think that sharing a first name would be a nice and easy connection between two people entering one of the dozens of human interactions everyone has every day. Not for this guy, he seemed to want a fight, but I wasn’t interested in providing one. I just wanted the gravel unloaded in the correct locations and he could depart without incident. Half of the load was required by our neighbour for a pathway and the other half for the alley behind our house where concrete work had a left a mess.
Attempting to not make the driver’s Bad Day worse, I politely explained the easiest way to access the alley for this two-drop delivery. Having been a truck driver myself, I know it is common for truck drivers to seek out instruction or suggestions from people familiar with the area in question. This makes it easier for everyone involved — especially the driver.
After explaining that driving forward into the alley was the best approach, the driver inexplicably positioned his truck to initiate a backing procedure. I ran up to his open window and repeated my genuinely helpful directions. His face said something to the effect of, “shut up asshole,” and defiantly continued with the counter-productive backing. He was about to dump the gravel in the wrong spot, where it would block our neighbour’s garage access.
Frustrated, I went to his window and again pointed out — less politely — that he was making it more difficult for himself and he needed to drive out, turn around and drive in forward (if you aren’t keeping count, this was the third time I said this). Although I didn’t really want to, I even offered him a $50 bill for the trouble, which I had handy for any possible problems with the more complicated two-drop situation. I don’t know about you, but it would make my day if someone offered me $50 for doing only slightly more than expected. Maybe he took that as a slight, I don’t know.
This driver then made two mistakes:
- He didn’t accept the crisp and glossy $50 bill
- He harshly asked the bald old guy with a white beard (me) in a condescending tone “Do you know how to drive a Class Three, buddy?”
As a student of the human condition, I accurately identified this as the “fight” component of the guy’s fight-or-flight response. As mentioned, I didn’t want to fight, but he had unwittingly just created a fight he was necessarily going to lose.
It is important to know that a Class Three licence in my province is basically a “participation ribbon” when compared to a Class One licence which, in relative terms, is the gold medal. The Class One allows the holder to drive a semi tractor-trailer or any other vehicle, the only exception being motorcycles. Unfortunately for this arrogant and belligerent dude, I happen to hold a Class One and a motorcycle licence.
His Bad Day was about to get much worse.
I put away the $50 bill back in my wallet, drew out my licence, climbed up the steps of his truck and showed him the recently-renewed gleaming blue Class One licence. As he reviewed the details I said, “Yes, not only can I drive a Class Three, but I can also drive a Class One.”
He made three more mistakes:
- He yelled in my face, which was about seventeen inches from his, “Get off my truck!” (more “fight” response)
- As I stepped down, he shouted, “Get someone else to deliver your gravel!” (see above)
- He drove away (I believe this is the “flight” response because I have never seen him again).
Having lost his self-imposed fight the only remaining option for him was to flee.
Or maybe he was simply experiencing an understandable deep fear since my licence picture resembles someone who has spent most of his life on death row. On the other hand, his fear might have come when seeing the motorcycle certification and made the partially-correct assumption that I am a member of a motorcycle gang. To be honest though, our so-called “gang” would be more accurately described as a “coffee klatch.”
Regardless, judging from the many apologetic calls and texts I later received from both this dude’s trucking boss and the gravel supplier, the Bad Day had quickly become a Worse Day.
Although I am now retired, I keep up the required annual renewal of the Class One licence … because you never know when it might come in handy.
