I pulled onto the freeway this morning, checked my mirrors and saw a van in my rearview. The van was far enough away that I could pull in and accelerate before he caught up to me. Except I didn’t factor that he would be going 75 mph during morning rush hour! I pulled into the lane and before I knew it he flew right up my ass. I had to quickly whip back into the exchange lane so he could pass.
He could have moved to the left lane or slowed down, but he didn’t.
Now I am pissed because he was ruining my beautiful morning and he was so damned inconsiderate. My mind turns to revenge. Revenge, sweet, dark, bitter revenge, like cherry cough syrup flowing down a junkie’s throat.
1)
FANTASY: I would speed up and catch up with him. Surprise him. Force him off the road, whip his door open, pull him out and kick his ass. Tears would cut rivers through the blood on his face when he wept at my superior prowess.
REALITY: He is driving a big 8-cylinder van which gives him more power and quicker acceleration. I am driving a 4-cylinder Saturn. While I do have a lighter vehicle which allows the engine to work less hard, the considerable power difference in his engine more than makes up for the excess weight. I would never catch up with him
2)
FANTASY: He gets into an accident farther up the road. I stop to help the innocent victims. His DoomMobile is rendered inoperable by the impact and he is forced to wait. As the authorities arrive, he weaves a web of deceit around the officers, making them believe it was not his fault. Indignance flares and I rush to set the story straight. He is vilified in the media and I am duly rewarded.
REALITY: Being a tattletale is really very trite and juvenile. Best to take the high road and allow fate to work on him.
3)
FANTASY: This one is more television than the others. Quietly, I insinuate myself into his life. Show up in places. I serve him his coffee at Denny’s. Follow him through his neighborhood. I am the parent next to him at the 3rd grade recital in which his son plays a peapod and my daughter is the infinitely more talented mushroom. He sees me everywhere, he sees me nowhere. His guilt eats at him. Why couldn’t he have just slowed down, he wonders constantly. In his distraction, he drives into the river. I am the paramedic on scene. He pleads with his eyes. Forgiveness is a pair of defibrillator paddles.
REALITY: TV always forgets to tell you how the revenge-driven find the information on the revengee. I didn’t even see what company he worked for.
In the end, I just went to work. Seemed better than trying to become a paramedic on the off chance our paths would cross again.