"Duel", sans Dennis Weaver

Dear Obviously Crazy Driver of White Semi:

Hello. You don't know me. You didn't even see me. I was in the green 4-door car you almost killed this morning.

OH! Didn't know you did that, huh? WEEEELLLLL, let's sit down and have a cuppa coffee and chat about just that, okay Mr. Dastardly Bastard Man?

Your truck is very big, very loud, and very imposing, to be sure. However, as I sat at the light near Local University, jamming to some Dave Matthews tune, I sure as hell didn't notice you. I was in my 'just-dropped-the-kids-off-at-camp-five-minutes-to-myself' mode. I tuned out most everything except my caffeine and the bicycling legs of 20-ish college boys as they passed by.

Then you...lurched.

I was startled out of my reverie by your big white box jerking forward mightily, as if you...what...dropped your flask of vodka?...the whore bit down too hard on yer johnson?...you finally woke up and said, where the hell am I? It wasn't just a 'pulling-up-to-the-red-light' lurch. The car in front of you pissed itself. I was beside you, in the right-hand lane, and didn't piss myself, but my forehead got all wrinkly with a 'huh?' expression, because when you lurched, there was a sort of squeal and scream effect, and your truck shook for a while afterward like my belly after a good sprint.

Did you just learn how to drive?

I have reason to believe you did.

As your subsequent behaviour can only be described as the brainless meandering of one who needs to fucking wake up and go through drivers ed again.

Mr. Bastard Guy, that truck of yours makes you sit up very high. You can see more of the road ahead than most of us poor slobs in cars. Did you look at the road ahead? Were you slappin' a bitch at the time? 'Cause any fool could see that the southbound two lanes REMAINED two lanes after the light. Those two lanes didn't magically morph into one lane at the bridge and then back into two.

Did you just get that?

"...at the bridge"???

Because that's exactly where you decided to execute your moustache-twisting Simon Legree "Evil Plan".

Your nice white truck, all big and thundering, whipped it's body into my lane. Not just a gentle "oh, one tire is over the line" thing either, but a Doc Marten shit-kicking rumble of tires and metal and your back tires are at my door and inching closer, and I can't move right because I'm already right, except there's the river there, down the steep imbankment, once I careen through the cement railing that stands guard over it, with huge trees to crush my insides once I finally hit bottom.

You think you're an intellectual, don't you, APE?

I jammed the brakes just as your back end came within a millimeter of my front. By the grace of some higher power, or just plain dumb luck, we missed connecting. You straddled both lanes for nearly a quarter mile, enough time for the adreneline in me to peak and cause beads of sweat on my upper lip, above my mouth which was cursing like bloody fuck. You caused the entire line of traffic to halt, as you wove crazy road tapestries with your enormous bulk. In this lane...in the other lane...whoops, sideways across both lanes. Obviously speeding, obviously not caring.

We drivers tried to stay away from you. But there was a stop light, which...by the way, why did you stop, Mr. Hulk? It would have been your nature to blow through that puppy. Instead, you stopped, and the long line of cars was all because of you. We inched around you, and one nice gentleman used his SUV as a sort of speed bump for you, pulling in front of you so the rest of us could get past. And we did.

My one regret is that I didn't get your license plate number. Your truck was white and unmarked, with no identifying marks or 'How's My Driving' stickers on the back. My desire to stay alive kicked the shit out of revenge, I guess, and I just wanted to get away from you. Far, far away.

So, in conclusion, Mr. Fucking Crack-fer-Brains, you're an asshole. A gen-u-wine prick. I hope that karma catches up to you and the next time you tangle it's with a gang of semis who don't take kindly to your style of driving.

Flipping the finger repeatedly,

Mona