Rush Hour

Okay, so I truly believe that commuting with traffic on Long Island on a daily basis is one of the most consistently frustrating things a person can do in his or her life. I think anyone who is familiar with this situation will either agree or at least empathize. The following little piece of work was somewhat Cathartic for me and I hope others can relate. -JMS

 

I’ve had this feeling before, but today it moves beyond a sense of paranoia and into the realm of frightening reality; this car in front of me is conspiring to make me late. This driver is making a conscious effort to fuck me over. 

This morning the architect of my frustration is Mr. Benz. He may be angry because I’ve been riding his ass for the past five or six miles, but if he were competent enough to drive the speed limit he wouldn’t have my aggravated eyes in his rearview mirror. If he can read lips he’s undoubtedly seeing all the awful things I’m saying about his wife and his family (who I know nothing about and may not even exist), but that’s just fine. He needs to understand that driving at this speed simply is not acceptable. 

And look at his piece of shit Benz anyway. This guy is definitely not better than me. I mean c’mon, a fucking 2005 C230 Kompressor? Are you serious? You can find that shit for fifteen grand. This guy obviously walked into some dealership and was just like: “Hey, what’s the cheapest Benz you’ve got? I want the status symbol, but I can’t afford a nice one. No, I wouldn’t rather pay a few bucks more for a high-end pre-owned Japanese car because that doesn’t give me the attention and envy that I clearly do not deserve. I’ll take my budget Benz and my false sense of self-importance and call it a day.” 

I mean this is the kind of car real rich people laugh at. I wonder if he knows what a fucking joke he is. The car’s not even in good condition. The bumper’s all scratched up for Christ’s sake. This guy really could not be a bigger fucking tool.   

Oh, unbelievable! He cost me another light! This wannabe rich asshole is really giving me the screw-job. I can see the red of the traffic light reflecting off his bald, bulbous dome. If he had been driving just a little faster, we would have sailed right under that yellow light with no problem at all. 

He’s looking in the rearview mirror now. He’s trying to hide it. He’s trying to be subtle. But I can see him throwing glances back at me. Alright you cocksucker, I’ll give you something to look at. Bang! Double middle fingers! That’s right asshole, just one says ‘fuck you’ but two says ‘fuck you and everyone you hold dear, you self-satisfied piece of shit.’ 

He’s pretending not to see me. He’s aware that he’s in control. This fucking single-lane road with no passing is totally making this guy’s morning. And I’m giving him exactly what he wants: an exasperated response. He knows he’s negatively affecting my morning. It’s a shame I don’t have a shotgun in the car. I probably wouldn’t splatter his bald head all over the dash (as tempting as that may be), but I’d shoot out his tires. Under ideal circumstances he’d swerve into a tree or oncoming traffic and something or someone else would finish the job for me. 

Sometimes I wish I had a rocket launcher on my car. Imagine that: a Camry barreling down the street with a rocket launcher mounted to the side. People would smash into each other just to get the fuck out of my way. I probably wouldn’t even have to use it. At least not on a regular basis. 

Okay, green light shithead. Move it or lose it. Oh, he is clearly fucking with me now. He’s going 30 in a 45! He doesn’t even care about the line of pissed-off drivers behind me. He’s got his sights set on making my commute miserable and the others are just collateral damage, casualties of war. It’s really incredible how petty and inconsiderate some people can be. 

That’s it. I’m done with this guy. Solid double yellow line or not, I’m cutting around this dipshit. I refuse to allow him to start my day off on such an unpleasant note. That’s right asshole, watch me fly by your fake yuppie coupe while you… 

Oh you’ve got to be kidding. Is this loser really on his cell phone? He’s not even using a hands-free set. He’s just got that fucking phone plastered right up against his ear. He’s taking a big steaming shit all over rush hour just so he can have whatever meaningless conversation with whatever equally meaningless person is on the other end of that undoubtedly meaningless call! 

I hope he gets into a fiery wreck. I hope his wife has to identify his grotesquely charred body. I hope his kids find out their selfish father spent their minimal college funds on his shitty budget Benz. He is the epitome of what is wrong with society and anyone who thinks otherwise needs to have their perspectives rearranged ASAP. 

I pull in front of him and watch for his reaction in my rearview mirror. It takes him a moment to realize I’ve worked my way from back to front—he’s obviously very engrossed in his phone call—but when comprehension sets in his face contorts from obliviousness to outrage and he’s laying on his horn. 

Ha! Now that’s satisfaction! He’s still laying on his horn as he speeds up and I’m still smiling. I put up my right hand and wave amicably back to my new nemesis as I watch his reaction in my mirror. Oh, he is pissed. Even from a fair distance in front of him I can see a bold vein in his bald head pulse with extreme aggravation. He’s still speeding up, but I can see the cell phone slip from his ear and fall below my field of vision. He tries to grab it and winds up jerking the wheel with his opposite hand. The car wrenches suddenly to the shoulder, skids on a sizeable patch of sand and careens into a large tree on the edge of some shopping center’s parking lot. 

Disbelief places a firm hand on my shoulder, but the smile doesn’t leave my face. In fact it broadens. I take my eyes away from the rearview mirror just in time to see a minivan pull boldly and irresponsibly from a side road right in front of me. I slam on my breaks hard and skid for at least ten feet before stopping just short of the van’s bumper. I lay on the horn and once again offer the driver in front of me a double salute with my two most emphatic and representative fingers. I glare with scorching hatred through the van’s tinted rear window at my new faceless nemesis. 

…Fucking Long Island drivers.