Maybe it’s possible to be a little too nice

I've been reflecting on niceness lately, and how it is kind of important in life, and how I'm not nearly nice enough, and how I ought to do something about that, since I'm stretching the "middle-age" thing to the point that living to twice my age is as likely as getting something done the first time you go to the DMV. (I actually have been contemplating my own mortality a tad more lately ... actually, a little more than a tad ... actually, enough that friends and family aren't inviting me to parties anymore, but that's OK, they'll be sorry when I'm gone.)

So, a few observations on my journey toward niceness. First of all, on the way from North Carolina to Ohio, one drives up Interstate 77, and a lovely drive it is, although there are three tollbooths through the state of West Virginia (motto: Who knew we could pick a different name!). I drive this route twice a year, summer and Christmas, to see my family up in Columbus, Ohio (and occasionally at other times, such as last week, when my mother calls and says, "Your father's not feeling well and might not make it to summer, but don't you worry, honey," ... and, when I get there, he has a cold and is out playing golf).

On the way back from Ohio, I am normally much calmer than I am on the way up, I don't know why that is, but at any rate, I was in a happy mood as I drove south through West Virginia. And, as I approached the first tollbooth, I had what I thought was an original idea: Why not pay for the car behind me? Wouldn't that be fun, as well as cool, as well as giving me that Mother Teresa feeling inside ... and maybe get me a few points "up there," if you know what I mean?

So, I pulled up to the lady in the booth, handed her $4 -- yes, that's right, it costs $2 per car, so you can see that this was a huge sacrifice -- and said: "This is for that red van behind me, too. Just tell them I said, 'Happy Almost-Valentine's Day!' "

She looked at me as if I had lost my mind. In fact, she seemed completely paralyzed for several moments. So, I said it once again, a little slower, and eventually I could see the synapses firing, and she said, "Oh ... uh ... OK."

I pulled out and sped up quickly, so as to avoid that awkward -- not to mention dangerous -- vehicle-to-vehicle thank you. I didn't want to be thanked, I just wanted to go about the business of being saintly in my own anonymous, Mother Teresa way, and be left alone. A couple of miles down the road, however, I saw that red van pulling up close behind me, before pulling around and riding beside me for a few minutes. Finally, I gave in and looked over, and there was a whole family in there, waving and smiling and laughing and mouthing, "Thank you." I smiled back and thought, shoot, I could do this all day and really get a prime seat in heaven ... as long as I've still got enough for McDonald's.

Full of good will and charity and selfless, warmhearted benevolence, I pulled into the next tollbooth and made the same request. This time, the lady understood immediately and took my money with barely a smile. Hmm, I thought, someone needs to be nice to her one day, but not me, because hey, I'm already doing this other thing, and I do have a life.

So, I pulled out and sped up again, sort of watching behind me to see who was being thrilled by my unselfish generosity. It was a dark gray pickup with two men inside and a dog in the back. Oh well, I thought -- still nice! The pickup hesitated for a moment at the window, and then pulled out slowly, and I knew it probably wouldn't be able to catch up with me, anyway, so I went back to my Cracker Barrel book-on-tape.

Next time I looked in the rearview mirror, that pickup was right behind me, and I mean right behind me, and there were two gentlemen in there grinning like crazy, but not the "Thank-you" kind of grinning. It was more the "We-know-you-want-us-both-so-next-rest-stop-we'll-meet-you-in-the-truckbed-next-to-the-dog" kind of grinning.

It was sort of cool to find out my car could accelerate to warp speed, but while fleeing, I frantically calculated what Mother Teresa would have done in this circumstance -- and threw my rosary out the window to flatten their tires. Yeah! I can do nice.

Vicki Wentz's column, which appears here on Sundays, is published in newspapers across the country. She is a high school teacher who lives in Chapel Hill, N.C. Readers may contact her at vwentz@mindspring.com.