Is It Any Wonder? (Keane, 2006)

Any similarities to actual events and persons in my family are not coincidental. This story took place in March of 2007.

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"Right out of hell, I saw it!" ~ Commodore Decker, Star Trek Original Series

I rolled down the four-lane highway that led to my daughter's dance class. It was about 4:50 PM on a Tuesday and I was seconds away from an encounter with a motard — a driving challenged motorist.

My 11-year-old daughter sat next to me in the front passenger seat while my 6- and 2-year-old girls sat quietly in the backseat. I was going about 50 m.p.h. in a 45 m.p.h. zone, passing a vehicle on its 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.

"Holy schnike!" I thought — well not exactly. The car was 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 pulled into the left lane, a.k.a. my lane. I laid heavily on the brakes, averting 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 classical motard fashion, after nearly causing an accident and bringing my vehicle to almost a complete stop, the knucklehead in the maroon car accelerated — yeah, as if speeding up negated the fact he just cut me off.

I may be in the minority but when I do something motarded, I make sure to give the conciliatory I-know-I'm-an-idiot wave — and then pray like hell I don’t become a victim of road rage. Not only was an acknowledgement not forthcoming from the driver of the maroon beater, but adding insult to a hard stop, the bastage car backfired as it sped away, spewing a plume of dark exhaust for all to choke on.

Let's review: not only did the car cut us off, but, also, technically, it 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!"

Responding to my one-word outburst and having witnessed the cut and run herself, Lauren, my 11-year-old said, "What Dad?"

What Dad? Wasn’t it obvious? Making a concerted effort to remain calm and collected, I said, "He shouldn't have pulled out."

I couldn't help but think if Michael Scott of The Office was seated next to me and Dwight Schrute 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 . . .

Lauren nodded, fooled by my adult-like appearance.

We quickly gained on what was a circa 1988 Buick — not so — Regal. 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 ♥ Shopping" bumper sticker (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

"Did you see the bumper sticker?" Lauren said.

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 and 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 glaring, yelling, or gesturing, I think it's cooler to look totally unfazed — kind of the anti-rage.

My head trained straight ahead and, I might add, looking totally cool, I noticed the Buick was missing a front passenger side hubcap — it seemed 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. This was understandable, she had probably never seen a motard before.

Her eyes suddenly widened. "Hey Dad! There is a number you can call about his driving!"

Before her comment registered with my brain, 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 was the motard that kept giving.

"That's just great," I said.

Lauren and I laughed. I explained to her that this was not a real number. However, as if operators were standing by, she insisted we try it on my cell phone. I didn’t, but could only imagine . . .

Operator: [Indian accented female voice] Thank you for calling 1 800-FUCK-OFF. My name is Mary Smith, how can I help you?

Me: Yeah, um, there's a guy here, and . . . um, I don't like how he's driving.

Operator: Okay, Sir, 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, no, it has a black die on top. You know, 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.' . . . [silence]

Me: Hello? Are you still there?

Operator: Okay, yes . . . just one moment please . . . sorry, my system is slow today.

Me: No problem.

Operator: Okay. Let me see . . . Is it a 1988 maroon Buick Regal?

Me: Yes, I believe it is.

Operator: Missing a front passenger hubcap?

Me: [excited] Yeah, yeah, 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. Thank you.

Operator: Okay, you're welcome. Sir? One more thing . . .

Me: Yes?

Operator: Fuck off. [click]

"When people are laughing, they're generally not killing each other." ~ Alan Alda

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