freeway

Their internal monologues are almost loud enough to hear. There’s an entire queue of them. "Where did this asshole learn to drive?;" "Why the hell is that dick in this lane?;" "Get the fuck out of my way, douchebag!"

I sit behind the wheel and feel their rage like a warm blanket. I drive through it as I would a tuft of their cigarette smoke. My mood shifts to irate before I can adjust. I’m on the ass of the car immediately in front of me. I know he has nowhere to go. I know he’s just doing the same to the bumper immediately in front of him. I can’t help myself.

I start picturing the asshole in the first position of this single-file line of anger. I picture him or her oblivious to the frustration caused in their car’s wake. He or she is calmly adjusting the temperature. He or she is shifting slightly in the seat to a more comfortable position. He or she is tuning the dial slowly to find some road-friendly talk radio.

I picture a poisoned-tipped dart rocketing into his or her jugular. I visualize the pull of the wheel, the shift of weight, the tipping of the axles, the car upending as it enters the ditch. I see the muffler, then the mangled trunk, then the muffler again as the car flips twice and lands shakily on the driver’s side.

I imagine the lane clearing; everyone’s face brightens, I go on my way unobstructed. Then I look to my right and see a red sedan making the move to try and cut two or three cars ahead in our rage-line. I don’t know him, I’ve never met him, and I will never meet him. He’s an asshole. I turn my anger to the car in front of me for not reacting fast enough to deter his advancement.

I remember you’re supposed to follow the car ahead of you by three seconds. I’m curious. I count in my head, wha—. Oh well, good enough.

We eventually pass the offending car. Going the speed limit as posted should have jail time associated with it. The lead car directs focus away from the Elton John on his stereo enough to merge back to the right lane. The second car steps the right peddle to the floor. The rest of the line follows.

They work their way into the right lane immediately ahead of the car they were just following. I ride the bumper of the car in front of me until he mercifully pulls to the right. Then I’m free of their madness. I realize I’m going fifteen over the posted limit. Fuck it. I’m not risking ending up back in that group.

I turn the stereo up two notches, shift back in my seat, and the tension dissipates from me like sweating on a hot day. I look ahead and see a line of dozen cars in the left slowly inching past a Buick in the right.