The commute to one of my jobs features a junction that is, at the best of times, a calamitous convergence of chaos. Three roadways join to become four lanes, and those lanes then divide into three exits. If drivers would relax and use the half mile of road to find a safe, appropriate time to merge into their respective lanes, all would be well, but of course, that’s not what happens. People either drive like they’ve been shot out of a canon or choose a more leisurely speed, like 5 miles per hour, which leads to a hair-raising, brake-slamming, white knuckle experience for all.
While I attempted to navigate this Junction of Doom last week, I got caught in a typical predicament: the driver in front of me hit the brakes every few seconds while a man in a pickup truck hugged my bumper so closely that I could make out every feature on his stupid face. Tailgating infuriates me, as it is unnecessarily dangerous to the point of potential lethality, and if you read my last post, you already know that, at present, rage is my sole remaining emotion. Therefore, it didn’t take long for me to glare in the rearview mirror and roar, “GET OFF MY ASS!”
Just like that, the truck fell back about five car lengths. I gloried in the joyful change of circumstances before thinking, Whoa. How the hell did that happen? Do I have newfound magical powers? Or is it just a coincidence? I then glanced around at my four open windows and realized that the driver, having been an inch from my bumper, had definitely heard my stern warning/bloodcurdling scream and made the prudent choice to take it to heart.
I chalk up that incident as my greatest victory of the week. Also, I now believe there should be a loudspeaker affixed to the roof of my car so I may impart other gems of wisdom to my fellow drivers (e.g., Stop texting! Get off Instagram! Use your goddamn turn signals!).
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