Pair o' Pricks
I did my best yesterday to prove the lady wrong in the Trader Joe's checkout line, who said that people in L.A. don't know how to drive in the rain. After all, it was Storm Watch '06 on local news stations, which only pops up on the media if there's a chance Southern California will get three or more straight hours of rain.
I remember what my father taught me when I was sixteen. Even now I can picture him sitting in the passenger seat, waving his open right palm slowly from side to side above the dash, saying "Scan. Scan."
Doing just that, with palms closed, hands gripping the wheel, my eyes scanned the road as I drove in the fast lane, 10 MPH under my normal speed limit. I observed the traffic around me. Suddenly, a swift motion caught my eye. The car just ahead of me, in the next lane, swerved, moving towards the side of the road. Being on one of Long Beach's poorly drained streets, I wondered if the car was going to drag and go into a spin from hitting the overflowing gutter. The car hit the water, shooting a wave eight feet up in the air. As I passed, the water fell down like a white sheet being fluffed, and then I saw the pedestrian. He was a college student, sans umbrella. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his papers, class notes in his backpack, and he was now completely drenched. I felt for him.
I sped up, finally catching up to the car that by this time had settled back in its lane. I pulled alongside and looked over. The driver and passenger were laughing. The passenger looked back over his shoulder at the soaked student and he laughed some more. The pricks.
I looked ahead to make sure traffic was not stopping up and then held out my mono-fingered "fuck you" to the neighboring car. I shot over the best of my teacher looks—brow lowered, mouth slightly sneered, eyes locked in an angered stare. The passenger caught sight and suddenly looked confused. He had no idea why I gave them a singled fingered salute. Oh, I knew, damn it, my finger said.
Approaching my turn, I signaled and pulled into the turn lane. As their car moved across the intersection straight ahead, it dawned on me that I should have reached into the Trader Joe's bag, pulled out a couple brown free-range eggs, and pelted his fucking car. I was disappointed and frustrated that I thought of it too late. People can be such assholes, you know.
I remember what my father taught me when I was sixteen. Even now I can picture him sitting in the passenger seat, waving his open right palm slowly from side to side above the dash, saying "Scan. Scan."
Doing just that, with palms closed, hands gripping the wheel, my eyes scanned the road as I drove in the fast lane, 10 MPH under my normal speed limit. I observed the traffic around me. Suddenly, a swift motion caught my eye. The car just ahead of me, in the next lane, swerved, moving towards the side of the road. Being on one of Long Beach's poorly drained streets, I wondered if the car was going to drag and go into a spin from hitting the overflowing gutter. The car hit the water, shooting a wave eight feet up in the air. As I passed, the water fell down like a white sheet being fluffed, and then I saw the pedestrian. He was a college student, sans umbrella. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his papers, class notes in his backpack, and he was now completely drenched. I felt for him.
I sped up, finally catching up to the car that by this time had settled back in its lane. I pulled alongside and looked over. The driver and passenger were laughing. The passenger looked back over his shoulder at the soaked student and he laughed some more. The pricks.
I looked ahead to make sure traffic was not stopping up and then held out my mono-fingered "fuck you" to the neighboring car. I shot over the best of my teacher looks—brow lowered, mouth slightly sneered, eyes locked in an angered stare. The passenger caught sight and suddenly looked confused. He had no idea why I gave them a singled fingered salute. Oh, I knew, damn it, my finger said.
Approaching my turn, I signaled and pulled into the turn lane. As their car moved across the intersection straight ahead, it dawned on me that I should have reached into the Trader Joe's bag, pulled out a couple brown free-range eggs, and pelted his fucking car. I was disappointed and frustrated that I thought of it too late. People can be such assholes, you know.
posted by matty at 10:15 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home