Road Rage

Until you came up behind me, I was on cruise control.

I pegged you for another of those nose-pickers of the interstate.

But when I moved to pass a truck, you sped up to tailgate me. You
got
behind
me -- breathing down my neck -- and then you flashed your headlights.
You
know I couldn't hear your car horn. But flashing your headlights
meant I
was
supposed to get out of your way.

But I was doing ten miles above the speed limits already. Hey,
pal, you
shouldn't ask me to get out of your way when I'm already speeding.

But I moved aside and then I thought --

How dare you get angry!

My job is not to help you break the laws.

How do you like someone riding your ass?

You being in front of me means a lot to you. And I guess if we
were both
going
to a mutually agreed-upon destination, you crossing the finish line
ahead of
me
might matter. But we aren't -- which makes you look shallower than
the bird
bath
in my back yard.

I learned the two-second rule on following other cars. I'm following
the
guy
ahead of me, minding my own business, not pushing him. Then you
jumped
between us. You don't respect the distance I'm trying to keep. You
don't
respect me.

But I forgive and I forget.

Then the next day you're back.

You came up behind me and rode me, bumper to bumper, until you
were close
enough to see who printed my bumper sticker. And I was supposed
to ignore
that?

You take it as a personal affront that I am in the lane ahead of
you. Man,
I was
here first. I was here before you.

I saw you. You only speeded up because I got in front of you.

I got your number, son of a bitch.

You don't own the road. So you wait. You hang back until I'm done
with it.

Stop pushing me, I bitched when you drove past. Inside your car,
you were
busy
looking at your watch.

I made faces at you when you sped past me. I looked mean and angry,
as if I
had been squinting into the morning sun. But you didn't look my
way. You
didn't
care about me. Drinking coffee from your commuter mug was more important.

I thought about it afterwards. I'm driving two tons of steel, you're
driving two
tons of steel, and you want to play kiddy games at freeway speeds?

You don't have stopping distance.

Why don't you go suck a knife?

But then -- You're the same clown I saw on the surface streets.
You come
from
behind me, cut around me, jump back into my lane, you cut me off,
and I have
to
slow down or rear-end you, and then you speed up and get my green
light and
I
have to wait until the light turns greens again.

Yeah, I saw you on the surface streets a second time, too. You
come from
behind me, cut in front of me, we go about a dozen yards, then you
hit the
brakes, and make a right turn into a driveway ahead of me, making
me hit my
brakes, and I'm cursing you.

After, I feel like I ran four miles. I have to take deep slow breaths
to
catch
myself.

Listen -- I've always been annoyed that speeders "expect"
us to let them
speed.
Who says we have to let 'em? Why should I care that some clown gets
angry
because I'm obeying the laws of the road?

But then I saw you again. You like to sit back there like a bandit
in the
bushes,
ready to bushwhack me, ready like an enemy jet aimed at my blind
side.

I was in the right lane, and you saw me coming up behind a semi,
and you
were
behind me in the left lane -- and you sped up to pass me.

A slow-moving truck was coming down the on-ramp ahead of us --
and you sped
up to keep me from moving into the left lane.

You saw the same thing ahead of us that I saw. You saw how slowly
that semi
coming down the off-ramp a quarter-mile ahead of us was moving.
You saw how
he was going to take over the lane in front of me. But you sped
up just
fast
enough to cut me off.

Yeah, I couldn't believe it! As soon as I put the turn signal on,
you --
the guy
behind me -- you sped up to cut me off and keep me from moving into
the
passing lane, blocking me from entering your lane, keeping me from
moving
into
the fast lane, forcing me to slow down to match the speed of a slow-moving
semi
entering the Interstate.

You were talking on your cell phone as you drove past me, too busy
flapping
your lips with your office or your wife or your client to pay attention
to
my needs.
But that wasn't all, either. I guess you're too oblivious to me
to care
about me as
you drifted over the yellow line into my lane, but you insist I
should be
responsive to you.

Now I know who you are and I see you every night at this time.
All you have
to
do is get home, right?

Do you really have to get home before me?

Will the world end if you don't get home earlier than everybody
in front of
you?
Does everybody in front of you have to move out of your way and
get home
after
you? Does nothing in the world work right tonight unless you get
home
first?

Who the hell are you?

You would rather run me off the road rather than let me slow your
driving.

Where are you going that is so important?

Are you bleeding?

Why don't you call for an ambulance?

Do you need to go pee? Is your teeny weenie what makes you drive
so fast?

Why are you so sneaky?

Do you think you're getting away with something?

When you force me out of what I want to do, you are telling me
your life is
more
important than mine is.

Because there was another time--

I got out of your way -- got into the right lane -- and then, after
you
passed me,
you got into my lane and slowed down, and then I was stuck behind
you.

You know, one day I wrote down your license numbers, thinking I
would look
you
up later and see if you remembered the terrible way you drove on
the
Interstate.
But the folks at Motor Vehicles wouldn't give your home address
out.

These days I am so tempted to follow you home, to wherever you
are going,
fool,
where a fool like you lives, and just tell you to your face what
an ingrate
and a
bully and a jackass you are.

I tried following you home. But then I couldn't, because I realized
I would
be just
like you. If I match your speed, I'm as bad a driver as you are.
That's
how you
got away with it last time.

If I do find out where you live, you might want to get someone
to start your
car
for you.

Who are you?

The Bully.

I confess you do intimidate me when I see you fast approaching
me in my rear
view mirror. How fast are you going? I wonder. Are you smart enough,
quick
enough, to stop in time? And my heart starts throbbing and my throat
constricts.

Yes. You intimidate me.

Sometimes my palms are red from gripping the wheel.

But then you come back at me the next day. I can't believe how
quickly you
cut
in front of me. You wanted me to hit the brakes.

You have been counting on me being civilized enough not to hit
your car.
But
you have been pushing the envelope too long.

I drive differently now.

I look inside your vehicle now. I see who you are.

You're always on the phone.

When you cruise past, I want to speed up and rear-end you so hard,
you lose
control and careen off the road into the ditch.

I don't mind you trying to go around me. I would do the same in
your place.
It's
how you try to intimidate me -- even worse -- try to kill me --
that gets me
riled.

I feel shame. My face shows it.

How come you drive so bad?

The other night I saw you back there, ten cars back, matching my
speed, just
sitting there for the last two minutes. But -- I watched -- and
as soon as
I got
behind a semi and moved to pass that truck -- I looked in the rear
view
mirror,
and you were moving up on me.

I saw you closing the gap between us, closing in on me, galloping
up the
miles
and speeding like the Greyhound bus after midnight. I saw you speeding
up
and
then you were tailgating me, you rude bastard, so closely I couldn't
see
your
headlights!

You're driving me crazy!

If you don't kill me first.

So . . . You do it your way.

So . . . You don't have to follow the same rules as everybody else.

So . . guess how I feel about you.

I want to squeeze your neck like an orange until the juice is gone.

I want you dead.

Why am I so pissed? Because I should be looking forward and not
fearing
what's behind me.

Think about this: Have you ever gotten onto the Interstate, driven
for a
hundred
miles, then woke up? You got there -- wherever there is -- on automatic,
you tell
yourself. Did you know the purpose of the Interstate Highway System
was to
get
you from here to there without you having to think too hard?

You screw it up, jerk-off!

Yeah, that's it. We're baby-sitting you -- me and the rest of us
normal
drivers --
we are making a collective decision to let you pretend you're powerful
and
cool,
that you deserve to get ahead of us, that we will forgive and forget
the
lunatic
way you drive and the criminal way you make us change the way we
drive.

We have to baby-sit you.

You sit up there in your captain's chair in your SUV, jockeying
for position
on the
freeway, a cigarette in one hand, your cell phone in your other.

You are a fool. You take too much for granted.

If I slam on the brakes -- you're dead meat.

Push me and I will push back.

You should never do something that your insurance company will
call you an
asshole when they hear about it.

But you can't stop being a fool.

I heard once somebody say that there was just one miserable son
of a bitch
who
spends his entire day going from person to person making each person's
day
miserable.

I want to be him for you.

So now I plan on getting back at you.

Want to know what am I going to do?

I will do what I can to piss you off. When I see you coming behind
me,
speeding
faster than the Greyhound bus, right when you're a couple of car
lengths
behind
me, I will swerve -- just a tire or two -- over the line and into
your lane.
And I will
watch you wake up and slow down and hesitate, wondering if I am
drunk or
having a heart attack.

As you get close behind me, I will suddenly -- deliberately --
swerve over t
he
white line -- both left tires, and I will startle you.

When you go to pass me, I will start matching speed with you, and
then I'll
start
pushing you to go faster, faster, faster, and start sliding over
the dotted
line, to
make you flinch.

When you tailgate me, oh, I will move aside and let you pass. Then
I will
speed
up and get in the fast lane behind you and tailgate you, just like
you did
to me.
And I will have my brights on, just like you did to me. Right in
your rear
view
mirror.

I can see myself getting behind you on the Interstate. When we
get stuck
behind other cars in the fast lane, I will flash my headlights once
a minute
for the
entire ten minutes you are stranded in place in front of me, locked
into a
position
you don't want.

Move aside, my brights will say, move aside, you son of a bitch.

Ahead you will see a semi passing another semi. We will all be
stuck behind
them. When you speed up and tailgate me -- are you going to pass
all of
us --
cars and semis both -- on the left ?

That's grass out there!

Sometime you are going to end up being behind me doing 75, stuck
behind me,
last in line, a half-dozen cars ahead of you, and you self-absorbed
son of a
bitching leadfoot will be stuck behind me while a semi will be passing
another
semi ahead of us.

For a minute I will be tempted to stick my arm out of the window
and motion
you
to go around me and the other six cars ahead of me that are blocking
us.
Hell,
you could do that -- you could ride the grassy center strip of the
freeway.

If you want to ride the grass in the center of the freeway, you
go for it.
I won't
stand in your way.

Listen: I will be ahead of you. You be patient. You wait.

When you do pass me, you will flip me off with the Finger.

You will think it's over then. What you won't expect --

I will chase after you, get behind you, and start all over.

See, pal, I like playing mind games on the Interstate. Maybe I
know my
games
will backfire and kill me, but the thrill of screwing you over keeps
me
alive.

I just want to piss you off.

Monsters always want revenge. Or they die trying. When I get that
rage
inside
me going strong, I don't care about you. Afterwards maybe I'll say
I don't
know
what came over me. But I will be lying. I will know what came over
me.

You've been driving me crazy!

Tomorrow I'm bringing my gun.

I will pull out in front of you when you want to pass me. I will
watch you
fume in
the rear view mirror.

I'll bring my slide automatic to show you I mean business. I'll
hold it up
so you
can see it -- and I will rack the action.

You get out of your car and come at me, I will kill you.

I swear to god.

Scroll to Top