the minivan in front of me had been lumbering along at an infuriating 23 miles per hour for the last six thousand miles. as we made our way down the ramp toward the interstate, frustrated, i bumped the horn.
we picked up another lane. stay right and you’re getting off at lindsey street; move left and you’re headed for I-35.
finally granted an opportunity to pass, i slammed into the left lane and stormed by the van, barely noticing the handicap hanger as i tried to steal a glance at the kind of retard who drives like that. the van’s horn began a sustained, dopplered blaring, and in my rearview i could almost make out the driver’s hand, perhaps trying to tell me something.
i hit the brakes— hard— having decided, just for a moment, that i should demonstrate how aggravating it is to be stuck behind someone driving at half the posted speed limit. the uselessness report on this idea arrived in my brain immediately after the idea itself, but not before my foot had stomped a hole in the floor where the brake pedal used to be.
the van veered, careened back into the right lane, and i laughed and cussed and downshifted, and raced toward a pink horizon.
3 years ago • Notes