Roads and Rage

So I decided, out of sheer boredom, to go to an event tonight happening in a nearby church basement. Funny thing is, every route out of my neighborhood, emphasis on “hood,” is under construction. You can enter, but it is nearly impossible to leave. We're on lockdown I guess. But I know a circuitous zigzag of roads that got me there, to the event, despite the urgings of orange signs telling me to turn back.

On the way home, I decided to take the official detour route. The route that funnels all westbound traffic from several closed arteries down one 4 lane main road. The speed limit is 30, so anything above coasting puts one at risk, but I’m in no particular hurry. I’m not, but apparently a blond Mullett-headed ape in a muddy monster truck had some place to be, and urgently. Perhaps he had just left one of the many nearby strip clubs and was in a rush to give the ol’ lady what the girls had made for him.

So on this particular road there is an intersection which seems custom made to cause conflicts. There just seems to be no correct way to drive it. On the westbound side are three lanes, a stubby left-turn lane entering the freeway, a center thru lane, and one of those diminishing curb lanes after a right turn. I never get why those even exist.

Of course there’s always more left turners than the lane can hold, so they stack up in the thru lane. If you are passing thru, you can either stack up in the mostly-left-turning traffic, or use the diminishing curb lane. It is also a thru lane, and is emblazoned with gigantic painted arrows alerting you to merge left. It comes as no surprise that anyone so unfortunate as to end up there must merge into the flow of traffic.

Mind you, this is an area where less than half the drivers have actual licenses, the average plate is made of cardboard, and speaking English is a quaint novelty. To expect expertise in driving skill here is naive, to say the least. Best to stay calm and leave space to escape.

So my lane is ending, there is nearly a car length to my left, and I’m just casually coasting into it. In civilized locales, this is called the zipper method. I guess Mullett-head wears button flies. And nobody is getting into a spot in traffic ahead of him. Nobody.

What I was attempting to do, namely merging into traffic from an ending lane, was an act so heinous it made this dude angrier than I’ve made anyone this week. I mean, he was lit up. It was comical how pissed he was. He roared into the half-lane still left by my small car, muddy tires howling, and began flipping me off and cussing me out thru his open passenger window. Probably spent his a/c repair money on a bag of skunk weed.

So here’s the thing. I’ve been depressed this week. They say part of depression is lack of interest. And despite the fact that I’m sharing the incident now, I couldn’t care less whether the other party likes or dislikes my driving. In fact I screeched to a halt and insisted that he take his rightful place in front of me. Whoop dee do. You win, Asshole. Ordinarily I might insultingly demure, call him Darling, even pretend to swoon at his impressive show of force. But today? Just fucking go, Dude. Go find someone able to give a shit.

There’s a great show on YouTube Originals called Wayne, where the main character often goats someone into kicking his ass, only he doesn’t fight back. They just pound on him until they decide to stop. Wayne wins by losing. No amount of pounding can make him give a shit.

I didn’t get it at first, but I kinda like it. Sure, Mullett-head could have flattened me. Pretty much anybody could. Any other day I might have given him more reason to do so. But he can’t impress me, which I would think is the point of being so hostile. He wants me to notice. He wants the world to notice. Problem with getting noticed, tho, is that sometimes there’s nothing to see.

That’s what I saw, anyway. Nothing much. Poor bastard.