Tuesday morning I was witness to a particularly weird case of “road rage” on my way to work. It was raining cats and dogs (as it’s been doing pretty much all week). I had a half-assed shot at getting to work by 9AM that morning despite the weather. As I drove up Capitol, the last 8-block haul before turning onto Caroline toward my building, I came up behind a man in a white pick-up truck. On his cell phone. Going 20 miles an hour … MAYBE.
So I make the “traveling” signal with both my hands, in a rolling motion. He continues his convo and holds steady at 20 MPH. So I do what any red-blooded Houstonian would do: I whipped around him. I also gave him the single digit salute as I sped past. I made the yellow light at the next intersection. Great, I didn’t lose too much time.
What do I spy in my rear-view mirror? Why, it’s none other than Mr. twenty-miles-an-hour-on-my-cellphone. He whips beside me on my right as I slow down to make a left-hand turn onto Caroline. Abruptly, and from the middle lane, I might add, he turns in front of me and I have to slam on my brakes to keep from hitting the left front of his truck, which is catty-corner across my path and halfway in the intersection.
Next, this fool exits his truck, one hand waving his cell phone and the other in a fist, beating on the hood of my car, the A-pillar, and the windshield. He was barking some inanities about me not giving him enough time to do whatever it is he thought I thought he should do, and then right before getting back into his car, exclaimed that I was crazy.
Okay, let’s review: I’m stopped at an intersection on my way to work, sitting, warm, dry and cozy, in the comfort of my vehicle and he’s in the middle of the road, in the rain, practically jumping up and down on the hood of my car like Yosemite Sam. And I’m the crazy one. M’kay.
So he finally gets back in the car and proceeds down Caroline, with me right behind him (I was going that way anyway, remember?). And of course, he’s playing that stupid little game, “Slam on the brakes to make the person in back rear-end you.” Since I had a nice clear view of the back end of his truck, I memorized his license plate number. I then noticed that he turned into the loading dock of my building!
“I have you now,” I thought to myself. What I really thought was, “Oh, great. This nut is loose in my building!” So when I pulled into the garage, I told the security guard about it, and I also did not leave out the part about my flipping him the bird. But honestly, I don’t think it warranted his reaction. If he’s gonna come unglued over that, he’s got serious anger issues. More so than me, at least.
Simply put, if he’s gonna be intimidated by a fat chick in a Honda, then I sure am glad I’m not his girlfriend, wife or dog. Yeesh.