It has all the makings of a fabulous Friday. The kids are up early and happy. Your son got into the shower on his own initiative. Your daughter decided to forego makeup today – which not only means she (and therefore everyone else) has a more relaxed morning getting ready, but also speaks volumes about her self-confidence. And your puppy crapped in the grass the minute you took him out. And you got paid your bonus today! All that, plus the fact that you made a breakthrough last night in that screenplay you’re writing with your buddies, and now it’s all coming together and practically writing itself. In short, everything is awesome.
You drop your kids at school and pull out onto the street, on your way to Starbucks. You’ve cut your Starbucks habit down to just once a week, because Starbucks is assheadedly expensive. You finally got around to reading your annual Amex summary and you spent HOW MUCH at Starbucks last year?! But today is Friday, and today you will indulge.
You turn right onto Bryant Irvin and begin to accelerate. You’re not exactly in a hurry, but you’re certainly not driving like a grandpa. You look in your rearview mirror and see a leadfoot in a Lexus barreling toward you. There was plenty of distance between you when you turned onto the street. But he has cut the distance dramatically. The other lanes are sparsely populated, and you are basically at or approaching the speed limit already. But he apparently has someplace to go urgently, because he’s driving like a moron, and well over the speed limit. And he wants to stay in THIS lane, and only this lane, and your presence in it pisses him off.
He comes up behind you and lays on the horn. It’s not a “hey, I’m cranky” kind of honk. Or a “Dude, you cut me off. Not cool!” kind of honk. It’s a “SCREW YOU AND THE MOTHER WHO RAISED YOU!!! AND YOUR CHILDREN!!! AND YOUR CREDITORS, AND DRY CLEANERS, AND EVERYONE WHO KNOWS YOU OR MIGHT ONE DAY DO BUSINESS WITH YOU!!!!!!!!!!” kind of honk. And he’s right up on your ass now.
So naturally, you slllllooooowww wwaaaayyyyy doowwwwnnnn. Because like him, you also fluently speak Total Dick.
And this enrages him vastly. And he careens out of your lane, speeds past you, careens back into your lane, and hits his brakes in front of you to give you what he got. Or kinda. Because he’s not really committed to it. Remember, he’s gotta be somewhere urgently? And even tapping his brakes as he does, he’s still going faster than you, and so it doesn’t really affect you at all. You smirk just so he knows you think he’s an idiot. And he hits the gas and jets forward.
Except he doesn’t. Because there’s a dump truck in front of him. And now you’re all at a red light. So much for getting wherever you’re going in a hurry, dickhead.
Then the traffic starts moving again, and you’re approaching the Starbucks. And then he turns right into the same Starbucks. Really dude? You were speeding to the Starbucks drive thru?
As you turn in behind him, you realize that he might think you’re following him. After all, you just had a regrettable road rage incident. And he doesn’t know you at all. Maybe you’re one of those guys who doesn’t let this kinda thing go. Maybe you’re out for revenge of some kind, or an escalated confrontation. Besides, anyone who will drive around in public with the kind of epic bedhead you’re sporting *must* be loco.
He’s already in line, but you haven’t committed because there are eighteen damn cars in this line. Ugh. Screw it. You’ll get coffee somewhere else, or you’ll just drink the stuff at home.
You pull out from behind him, intending to drive past and avoid the line altogether. But at this point he panics. He must fear that he’s about to be the victim of a drive by shooting or something because he lurches his car halfway out of the drive thru line and blocks your lane. He hits the brakes because he can’t quite clear the car ahead of him. His car jerks to a stop. Then he does a fast, almost reckless reverse, jerking to another stop. Then he guns the gas again, peeling out in front of you and screeching his tires to turn out of the parking lot and onto another street. Good lord.
You move cautiously past the other drivers, who have their mouths open at Lexus Guy’s buffoonery. And now you’re again on the same street he’s on, because he is stuck at another red light. As you approach, he’s having an agitated conversation with the woman or girl in the front seat, because he’s speaking with his hands in brisk karate chops. And part of you desperately wants to see this asshole’s face.
But part of you doesn’t. Because he’s in the right lane – a lane crammed with cars that are all headed to the school. He would have to use that lane at this time if he were going to drop his daughter off. And if this is one of the parents from school, you’re never going to be able to think kindly of him again.
So you pull up beside him in the left lane, and you intentionally don’t look at him. Not because you’re afraid of this altercation, but because you know that – just as everyone has bad days, so too do you sometimes struggle with forgiveness. And if you were to look and see that he is Mr. So-and-So, father of Such-and-Such, no matter how hard you try, he’s always going to be that asshole in the Lexus.
The light turns green. You drive forward while he takes a hard right and guns the gas again. Don’t memorize his license plate, don’t memorize his license plate, damnit! I said DON’T! Think of something else! La la la! 85 Bears: 72 William Perry, 50 Mike Singletary, 09 Jim McMahon, 34 Sweetness, 58 Wilbur Marshall, uh . . . Bulls: 23 MJ, 33 Scottie Pippen, uh . . . Paxson?, Horace Grant, Bill Cartright, um . . . my lucky number is 27, and that clearly rhymes with heaven . . . uh Tango Niner Foxtrot!
You turn left onto the Chisholm Trail and have forgotten the license plate. Maybe you’ll post about this.
And then you’ve set your cruise control, and begin the serene drive to your house. You try to remember what you were thinking about before this dumb thing happened.
Oh yeah: everything is awesome.