Road Rage
Feb 22, 2010 10:33 AM Filed in: Published Writing
There I was in my suit, late for my flight to my job interview, and the big, bearded construction worker in the pickup truck In front of me was mad. I gather I had unknowingly cut him off somewhere along the way. Now there he was, eloquently expressing his feelings about my offense in his rearview mirror. He decided not to breeze through the yellow light he hadn't noticed and stopped past the stop line. I coasted to a stop right at the line, with another car right on my rear bumper.
Mr. Lifts-Angle-Iron-For-A-Living wanted me to back up. I couldn't. I think the man must have been deaf, because he sent a lot of sign language my way. I don't read sign language, but the general impression I had was that he wanted me, along with the car behind me, to back up. Or maybe the horse I came in on. I'm not sure, but I think he did imply something about my ancestors, too.
I responded with an exasperated "What do you want me to do?" hands-up gesture.
When he continued foaming on, my testosterone and then-relative-youth got the better of me and I unfortunately gave him an expressive hand signal of my own.
Oops. Big, big oops.
Out of his pickup he came. Six feet two maybe, but he looked eight feet tall. Beard, jeans and boots with steam coming out of his ears. Here comes Bluto, and I'm all out of spinach. I'm in my best suit and late for a plane. I locked my doors. That’ll show him.
"Get out here!" he screamed. I just looked at him. He punched my window. It didn't break, and it looked as if his fist hurt, which didn't improve his mood. He backed up to kick at the door of my old but shiny Toyota.
I should pause here to tell you this happened 30 years ago. It was one of those life-affecting incidents that helped me grow up, at least in regard to driving. All that metal, glass and anonymity often bring out some surprising behavior in people.
Imagine what it would be like if we walked on crowded sidewalks the way many often drive? You’d hear, "Hey, whatcha tryin' to go aroun' me for, Granma?" as a white-haired lady stepped in front of somebody to enter a drugstore. Window-shoppers would hear, "Hey, get outta da way! Whatcha t’ink dis is?!” on sidewalks with lots of passers-by.
Picture the absurdity of using obscene hand gestures to people next to you on the sidewalk. It would be like one constant game of ice hockey with no gear. Good for orthodontists’ business, I guess.
You'll recall we left the story with Bluto about to kick in my door. Maybe he wouldn't get in, but my car would be damaged. At this point, the light changed to green. His foot was behind him and swinging forward; if I floored it, there was a small space into which I could zip between King Kong and his truck. It seemed the best way out at the time.
I stepped on it and jerked the wheel to the left. It didn't help that my aging clutch was slipping badly enough that I usually accelerated like Fred Flintstone, with a lot of activity under my car before we actually started to move. Yabadabba doo, Wilma, here I come.
The transmission genie was on my side this time. And my tires actually screeched. I carefully aimed between Bluto and his sparkling new pickup truck. Although this all happened in a second or two, I specifically recall having time to think of a lot of options. I needed to get away, and of course I didn't want to hit him. I just wanted to get out of there.
He had left the driver's door open. I went right through it, bending it 90 degrees further forward than Detroit ever intended. This man was going to be mad.
I screamed down the road as fast as I could manage, but eventually in my rearview mirror I saw a pickup truck with a loose driver’s door flopping wildly in the breeze. I had it floored in a 35 mph zone and he was gaining.
Presently I was in front of the airport, and the truck with a broken wing was on my butt. Thankfully there was a K-9 patrol car parked near the terminal. I cut recklessly across four lanes of traffic and jumped out. I was never more glad for a cop in my life. I tried to explain about this nut chasing me, when said nut jumped out and started yelling. The policeman told the guy to back off or the dog would be at his throat in a moment.
We both were brought into the station, a first for me. The other guy was put in a cell while be cooled off, and I played my calm businessman demeanor to the hilt. The officer was taking down my version of events and checking me out when someone in charge walked by. It was shift change, and they wanted to wrap things up. I started to explain to the new guy what had happened, but he interrupted.
"Book 'em both for reckless driving and get 'em outta here." Oh-oh. I'd had detention in high school only once, now this.
The new guy left, and the first cop whispered over his desk, "Listen, I don't think you deserve that. Let me just get your information and then I’ll let you go."
I made my flight. Three weeks later, I received a bill from the other guy's insurance company. I told my insurance agent about the incident; I hadn't reported it before because I figured this was one where I'd be better off paying for the damage to my car myself. After she stopped laughing, she offered that she thought they would actually get the other guy to pay for both cars' damages.
They did, and I no longer speak that type of sign language, especially while driving.
-- This article was originally published a dozen years ago in Cleveland’s The Plain Dealer. Copyright 2010 by Bruce Corson, all rights reserved.
Mr. Lifts-Angle-Iron-For-A-Living wanted me to back up. I couldn't. I think the man must have been deaf, because he sent a lot of sign language my way. I don't read sign language, but the general impression I had was that he wanted me, along with the car behind me, to back up. Or maybe the horse I came in on. I'm not sure, but I think he did imply something about my ancestors, too.
I responded with an exasperated "What do you want me to do?" hands-up gesture.
When he continued foaming on, my testosterone and then-relative-youth got the better of me and I unfortunately gave him an expressive hand signal of my own.
Oops. Big, big oops.
Out of his pickup he came. Six feet two maybe, but he looked eight feet tall. Beard, jeans and boots with steam coming out of his ears. Here comes Bluto, and I'm all out of spinach. I'm in my best suit and late for a plane. I locked my doors. That’ll show him.
"Get out here!" he screamed. I just looked at him. He punched my window. It didn't break, and it looked as if his fist hurt, which didn't improve his mood. He backed up to kick at the door of my old but shiny Toyota.
I should pause here to tell you this happened 30 years ago. It was one of those life-affecting incidents that helped me grow up, at least in regard to driving. All that metal, glass and anonymity often bring out some surprising behavior in people.
Imagine what it would be like if we walked on crowded sidewalks the way many often drive? You’d hear, "Hey, whatcha tryin' to go aroun' me for, Granma?" as a white-haired lady stepped in front of somebody to enter a drugstore. Window-shoppers would hear, "Hey, get outta da way! Whatcha t’ink dis is?!” on sidewalks with lots of passers-by.
Picture the absurdity of using obscene hand gestures to people next to you on the sidewalk. It would be like one constant game of ice hockey with no gear. Good for orthodontists’ business, I guess.
You'll recall we left the story with Bluto about to kick in my door. Maybe he wouldn't get in, but my car would be damaged. At this point, the light changed to green. His foot was behind him and swinging forward; if I floored it, there was a small space into which I could zip between King Kong and his truck. It seemed the best way out at the time.
I stepped on it and jerked the wheel to the left. It didn't help that my aging clutch was slipping badly enough that I usually accelerated like Fred Flintstone, with a lot of activity under my car before we actually started to move. Yabadabba doo, Wilma, here I come.
The transmission genie was on my side this time. And my tires actually screeched. I carefully aimed between Bluto and his sparkling new pickup truck. Although this all happened in a second or two, I specifically recall having time to think of a lot of options. I needed to get away, and of course I didn't want to hit him. I just wanted to get out of there.
He had left the driver's door open. I went right through it, bending it 90 degrees further forward than Detroit ever intended. This man was going to be mad.
I screamed down the road as fast as I could manage, but eventually in my rearview mirror I saw a pickup truck with a loose driver’s door flopping wildly in the breeze. I had it floored in a 35 mph zone and he was gaining.
Presently I was in front of the airport, and the truck with a broken wing was on my butt. Thankfully there was a K-9 patrol car parked near the terminal. I cut recklessly across four lanes of traffic and jumped out. I was never more glad for a cop in my life. I tried to explain about this nut chasing me, when said nut jumped out and started yelling. The policeman told the guy to back off or the dog would be at his throat in a moment.
We both were brought into the station, a first for me. The other guy was put in a cell while be cooled off, and I played my calm businessman demeanor to the hilt. The officer was taking down my version of events and checking me out when someone in charge walked by. It was shift change, and they wanted to wrap things up. I started to explain to the new guy what had happened, but he interrupted.
"Book 'em both for reckless driving and get 'em outta here." Oh-oh. I'd had detention in high school only once, now this.
The new guy left, and the first cop whispered over his desk, "Listen, I don't think you deserve that. Let me just get your information and then I’ll let you go."
I made my flight. Three weeks later, I received a bill from the other guy's insurance company. I told my insurance agent about the incident; I hadn't reported it before because I figured this was one where I'd be better off paying for the damage to my car myself. After she stopped laughing, she offered that she thought they would actually get the other guy to pay for both cars' damages.
They did, and I no longer speak that type of sign language, especially while driving.
-- This article was originally published a dozen years ago in Cleveland’s The Plain Dealer. Copyright 2010 by Bruce Corson, all rights reserved.
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