You know what kills me? The feeling of hating an anonymous jerk in a car and not being able to do anything about it. On Saturday, Joe, Olivia and I were going out for a late lunch and then some errands. In Middleton center we caught all green lights and cruised through a busy two-lane intersection. We were in the right lane. Then this fucking guy at the cross street made a right on red and cut us off. Right on red is legal but he had nowhere near enough time to do it. I had to slam on my brakes to avoid us hitting him. Instinctively, I honked and flipped the double bird. I’ve become a much more patient driver since Olivia was born—nothing is worth jeopardizing her safety—and I probably should have let this go too, but you know how it is, the jolt of adrenaline when you only have a split second to avoid a very bad situation, and after you do, your heart is pounding and you feel helpless and pissed.
In response he chose to slam on his brakes, trying to make me rear-end him. That is just the brattiest, most childish move on the road, a jerkoff’s way of flaunting disregard for accountability, manners, and public safety. He knows he was a dick, but he doesn’t care. You’re the asshole for calling him out. And he didn’t stop there. He came to a complete stop in the middle of the lane, holding up everyone behind him, and started yelling out his window. I couldn’t hear him and didn’t care what he was saying, but I could see his angry jerk face in his rearview mirror, red and contorted.
I should have known, really. He was driving an old-ass Dodge pickup of indiscriminate gray color, with peeling paint and a Sunoco bumper sticker. And wearing a neon green t-shirt.
So, I didn’t do what I would have done in high school, which is to blow kisses and try to get in front of him. Fortunately, I’ve matured a little bit. I rolled my eyes and waved my hand for him to give it up, don’t make it worse, start moving. Which he eventually did, and we followed him for a couple miles until he turned off on a street with some piles of dirt, construction vehicles, and white trash-looking houses.
Those incidents always stick around for a while, as you fume and try to calm down. The whole way to the restaurant, we’d be talking about something else and then one of us would burst out, “God, that guy! What an asshole. Who does that?”
Ugh, people.
In response he chose to slam on his brakes, trying to make me rear-end him. That is just the brattiest, most childish move on the road, a jerkoff’s way of flaunting disregard for accountability, manners, and public safety. He knows he was a dick, but he doesn’t care. You’re the asshole for calling him out. And he didn’t stop there. He came to a complete stop in the middle of the lane, holding up everyone behind him, and started yelling out his window. I couldn’t hear him and didn’t care what he was saying, but I could see his angry jerk face in his rearview mirror, red and contorted.
I should have known, really. He was driving an old-ass Dodge pickup of indiscriminate gray color, with peeling paint and a Sunoco bumper sticker. And wearing a neon green t-shirt.
So, I didn’t do what I would have done in high school, which is to blow kisses and try to get in front of him. Fortunately, I’ve matured a little bit. I rolled my eyes and waved my hand for him to give it up, don’t make it worse, start moving. Which he eventually did, and we followed him for a couple miles until he turned off on a street with some piles of dirt, construction vehicles, and white trash-looking houses.
Those incidents always stick around for a while, as you fume and try to calm down. The whole way to the restaurant, we’d be talking about something else and then one of us would burst out, “God, that guy! What an asshole. Who does that?”
Ugh, people.
