One young clerk is behind it. He's mixing cans of paint for a lady and her grown daughter. All three jabber away in Spanish. Though it sounded natural when I lived in Miami, it now seems rude.

The woman has an insert from a newspaper and seems to be asking the clerk about every product in it. The whole thing is taking far too long. I don't know exactly what the hold-up is because I can't understand them, or simply don't have the patience to try.

After a few minutes in which my presence isn't even acknowledged, I leave the shirt and paint on the counter and slip away.

Back on the road, traffic is heavier than before. Rush hour has officially arrived. I take the back way to my mother-in-law's house, run into problems at another left-hand turning lane. The pinhead in front of me is looking at something on his seat and doesn't realize the light has changed. I give him a move-your-butt blast. He seems startled and angrily flips me off. I make it through the light, but some of the cars behind me don't.

I'm anxious to see my son. Every light takes forever. In the old days, you only had to wait one turn. Nowadays, you have to wait three because of the left-hand turning arrows.

Finally, I get to my mother-in-law's street, make a right and have just a few blocks to go.

But what's this? A school bus has pulled up with its little stop signs sticking out. No one seems to be getting out of it.

My fingers are drumming on the wheel, right above where my father's hand wore through the leather from driving this car through its first 100,000 miles.

No one inside the bus seems to be moving. I want to honk because nothing seems to be happening.

But I don't.

Finally, I see the driver get out. Now what? She's a thin, middle-aged lady in navy slacks and light blue shirt. She walks towards the back of the bus, uses a key to open the rear side door.

It's a wheelchair lift. I moan. This could take a while. Someone in the bus finally rises to help a disabled girl to the lift. The girl has dark hair and seems to have trouble keeping her head up. A chubby shirtless kid whom I assume to be her little brother runs out of a fenced yard. He's over-anxious to help, can't stand still while the lift slowly lowers.

Mom is standing on the walk near the small house's front door. She yells to the boy in Spanish, and he steps back a pace.

The lift touches down. The little boy flips down its rail, runs behind the chair and starts pushing it as the girl helps with her hands.

As I watch this operation, I think about what this girl in the wheelchair has to go through every time she needs to go anywhere. It takes three people and a hydrolic lift a few minutes just to get her off of a school bus, something as quick as a hop, skip and jump down three stairs for other kids her age. Instead of feeling sorry for her, I feel happy that we live in a place where the people care about each other enough to go to so much trouble to make sure this girl gets the same kind of chances as other kids. And I appreciate the fact that I have the luxury of being in a hurry when I drive through Miami, because some people can never be in a hurry.

The bus driver raises the lift, closes the door and starts walking towards the front of the bus. I see a crescent of salt on her back from sitting in the driver's seat on a hot afternoon. Mom waves to the driver from the ramped doorstep of her house, then hugs the girl in the wheelchair. I feel warmed. There's a lot of love on this little side street.

For once, I'm proud of my country, my people and my species because we're in an age where people go the extra step to help those who can't take a step on their own. We're beginning to realize that no one is really any more handicapped than anyone else. We all just have different needs. It's a ray of mass enlightenment breaking through what I hope are the last days of humankind's dark ages.

Having given me my lesson for the day, the school bus pulls away. I pause for a moment to watch the little boy wheel his sister into the house as mom directs.

Someone behind me blows the horn.

I move on, but not in a hurry.

A world traveler and adventurer, Gary has a vast reservoir of mostly useless information which he draws upon to write thought-provoking and/or funny essays, a wide range of fiction, children's stories and verse, and newspaper and magazine features. Some of his writing and art can be found at his website, the Cosmic CafÈ. Gary lives in Boca Raton, Florida, with his eternally 39-year-old wife, Nora, five-year-old son, Glen, seven-year-old dog, Banyan, and a box turtle of indeterminate age named Schribner.