Seated next to me was was my (then) 11-year-old daughter, while my (then) 6-year-old and (then) 2-year-old girls sat quietly in the back. Going about 50 mph in a 45, we were passing a vehicle on the left as we approached a green traffic signal. It was then that a maroon car approaching the same intersection from the right caught my eye — the car was not stopping.
I thought to myself, "Holy schnike! That car is going to pull into the right lane and hit the car next to me." I began to brake.
I was correct — the maroon car didn't stop — but was wrong about the lane. The motard (or underachieving motorist) pulled into the left lane, a.k.a.
my lane. I had to lay heavily on the brakes to avoid a rear-end collision.
“Jesus!” I said, instantly sorry for taking the name of Jesús Alou — the youngest trio of baseball playing Alou brothers — in vain.
In typical motard fashion, after almost causing an accident and bringing my vehicle to nearly a complete stop, the knucklehead in the maroon car accelerated —
as if, nothing happened.
Okay, I may be in the minority, but when I do something motarded, I make sure to give the reconciliatory, "Sorry! I know I'm a motard" wave — and then pray that I don’t become a victim of road rage. However, no wave was forthcoming from the driver of the maroon beater. And adding insult to a hard stop, the bastage car backfired as it sped away — spewing a plume of dark exhaust for to choke on.
So, to recap: not only did the car cut us off, but it also technically farted on us. It was as if the beater maroon car was saying (spoken in a thick French accent), "I fart in your general direction! Your mother was a Hugo and your father smelled of motor grease!" (Yes, apparently the car was a fan of Monty Python and the Holy Grail.)
Responding to my one-word outburst and having just witnessed the cut and run herself, Lauren, my 11-year-old said, "What Dad?"
What Dad? Wasn’t it obvious? "He shouldn't have pulled out." I said, making a concerted effort to keep calm.
(As Lauren nodded her head, I thought to myself: if Michael Scott of The Office was seated next to me, and Dwight was in the backseat, this is when Michael would say, “That’s what she said,” and Dwight and I would laugh, and I would give Michael a knuckle-bump.)
We quickly gained on what was a circa 1988 Buick — not so — Regal anymore. The car was in need of a wash and rust remover. From behind, the driver appeared to be a man — a man with a "I Y Shopping" bumper sticker (not that there’s anything wrong with that).
"Did you see the bumper sticker?" Lauren asked, smiling.
I chuckled. "Yes."
"What's so funny?"
The shallow and small man that I am, I took the low road. "By the looks of his car the guy should be saving his money, or shopping for a new car."
Unsure if I was joking or serious, Lauren smiled uneasily.
We stayed behind the car for a mile or so before moving to the faster moving right lane. As we slowly passed the motard mobile, I made a point not to look at the driver. This is what I do: instead of staring, yelling, or gesturing, at a motard, I think it's cooler to look totally unfazed; kind of the anti-rage.
My head trained straight ahead, and looking totally cool, I noticed the Buick was missing a front passenger side hubcap — it was only fitting. I also noticed Lauren sitting straight up in her seat, her head cocked to the left, leaning forward, straining to get a good look at the car and driver. (I believe more out of curiosity than anything else — I don’t believe she'd ever seen a motard before).
Her eyes suddenly widened. "Hey Dad! There is a number you can call about his driving!"
Before Lauren's comment could fully sink in, I instinctively turned to look at the car. Immediately, my eyes were drawn to a small oval sticker on the back window: "How am I driving? Dial: 1 800-FUCK-OFF"
Damn! He got me again. It's the motard that just keeps giving.
"That's just great," I said sarcastically.
We both laughed and I explained to Lauren that this was not a real number. However, she insisted we try it on my cell phone. As if, operators were standing by. I didn’t, but could only imagine . . .
Operator [female voice]: "Thank you for calling 1 800-FUCK-OFF."
Me: "Yeah, um, there's a guy here, and . . . um, I don't like how he's driving."
Operator: "Okay, can you give me his license plate number?"
Me: "No . . . but he has a 'I heart shopping' bumper sticker and like a six-foot antenna with a black die on the top."
Operator: "Heart shopping?"
Me: "Yeah, I know, it makes no sense."
Operator: "Did you say the antenna was black on top?"
Me: "No, it has a black die on top. You know, like a cube with spots on it. A dice."
Operator: "Oh, okay. Can you give me a description of the driver?"
Me: "No, I didn't look at him, you know being cool and everything . . . but just one moment, I think my daughter did, hold on [muffled voices]. Okay, he had tattoos [muffled voice] and a weird haircut, and sunglasses even though it's not sunny out [muffled voice] a mustache and [muffled voice] he looks like he's a punk rocker. I think it's safe for you to just put down 'bad news.' "
Operator: "Okay, just one moment please . . . sorry, my system is slow today."
Me: "No problem."
Operator: "Okay. Let's see. Is it a 1988 maroon Buick Regal?"
Me: "Why, yes. I believe it is."
Operator: "Missing front passenger side hubcap?"
Me: "Yeah, [excited] that's it!"
Operator: "Sir, I feel I should just let you know that this man got his driver's license from a Cracker Jack box, hates his father, recently defeated The Oni Tormentor Dharmin in Mortal Kombat on his PlayStation 2, and has a really bad attitude."
Me: "Wow, good to know. Thanks."
Operator: "Anything else Sir?"
Me: "No, so, um, did you put down I didn't like how he was driving?"
Operator: "Yes Sir. Anything else?"
Me: "No, I guess not. I guess that would be it."
Operator: "Okay, Sir? One more thing . . ."
Me: "Yeah?"
Operator: "Fuck off." [click]
"When people are laughing, they're generally not killing each other." ~ Alan Alda