Ah, the joys of driving in upstate New York. I used to think that the drivers in Los Angeles were pretty bad, but now that I've been living up here for a couple of months I that so is not the case. Not a day goes by that I don't find myself behind someone who cannot drive for more than a quarter of a mile without utilizing the shoulder, or sit behind someone who finds it necessary to ensure that there are no approaching vehicles for more than a mile in either direction before proceeding with a turn.
Of course, all of this pales in comparison with my most recent motoring experience. It all started while driving home from the gym in my motor car. I noticed a rather unsightly minivan behind me following rather closely. The driver--a mother with several children in the rear--decided that my driving 10 miles per hour above the legal speed limit was not enough and decided to tailgate me. I briefly increased my speed another five mile per hour and much to my chagrin--rather than allow the distance between our vehicles to increase--she matched my increase in speed with her own. This is when I decided to revert to my Los Angeles roots and drive the speed limit. Well, this didn't sit well with her at all. In fact, she was so infuriated by my compliance with the law, that she nearly risked a head-on collision (with her children in the van) in a foiled attempt to pass me (quite illegally).
As our motoring adventure continued, my fellow driver finally accepted the fact that she would not be able to pass. Apparently, the back of my car was so unpleasant that it forced our kindly driver to further ignore the safety and welfare of her children. Almost home, I glanced in my rearview mirror and noticed that she was lighting up a cigarette with the windows rolled up and her small children seated behind her. Most astounding.
On its own this event would have been enough to get my road rage juices flowing. However, as I made the turn into the driveway of my apartment complex I couldn't help but notice that a blue pickup truck had parked itself right in the middle of the street. I slowed down behind the truck and noticed that he was rolling ever so slightly but was making no indication of what he planned to do. Without acknowledgement or signal I was unable to determine if he was going to move out of my way, stop and continue to wait for something, or make a sudden left turn into a parking spot.
I tapped my horn.
Nothing.
I went around.
As I begin to pull into my parking space (some 15 feet from the truck), I hear him lay on his horn. As a sign of indignity I do the same, park, and get out.
The truck speeds up (at least the driver is finally awake), and grinds to a halt.
"You're in such a fucking hurry asshole!"
Such jewels--I notice--are spewing from a 40-something tank top-wearing man, the textbook definition of white trash if I had ever seen one. Not to be drawn into this absurd display I simply retort (mmm...tort), "If you're going to stop in the middle of the road put on your flashers!"
The following gems begin to flow from the gentleman's mouth (I use the term gentleman
very loosely): "Fuck you! Eat shit! Suck cock!" Of course, the man had an equally white trash female companion in the cab of the beat-up 1980s truck, who rushed to her man's side by following up with, "We weren't stopped!" I guess I should have used the term "crawl" instead.
At this point Nicole replies with a simple, "Very mature!" The couple--not having a civilized bone in their body--speed off in their jalopy.
Nicole and I look at each other for a moment and wonder if the couple--who was old enough to be our parents--realized what fools they had just made of themselves. Doubtful.
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