A couple of weeks ago, while riding in the car with my wife and kids, en route to a favorite dining spot, a large white van began looming closely behind. Clearly, although we were exceeding the posted speed limit, we were not exceeding theirs.
I hate assholes that ride close to the back of my car, as if doing so will push me out of the way, or that they'll somehow drive over me. And I hate it even more when my kids are in the car. Who the hell do these bastards think they are, risking my life and that of my kids so they can arrive sooner to a place they're probably not even thrilled about going to?
We moved over, having to do so for our own safety as well as to not miss an off ramp, and as they sped by I decided to take action.
This was a business van. A carpet cleaning business. And although it didn't have a sincere 'how's my driving' sticker, or even the ever present '1-800-EAT-SHIT' sticker that tends to adorn beat up Pontiac Firebirds and Nissan Stanzas, the van did bear a business name and, to my good fortune, a business phone nbr as well.
Many years ago I encountered an idiot driving a service vehicle emblazoned with the name of the car dealership on it. He was driving as an idiot does; idiotically, and I used my cell phone to call the dealer, get transfered to the floor manager, and explain the circumstances, as well as the fact that I had been in the market for a new vehicle but would certainly not visit their business after seeing that employee's hazardous behavior. Sure, I lied about being in the market, but hopefully that had some impact and that goofball was pulled from the road.
So I thought I'd do the same in this situation.
I dialed the nbr on the phone, my wife driving the car and shaking her head, and I prepared to ask for a manager and launch into a tirade, but when the phone was answered, i wasn't greeted with a business name, just a standard 'Hello?'.
Momentarily thrown off, I asked 'Is this a carpet cleaning service'?
'Yes' said the voice on the other end of the line, but it was hard to hear them, as the connection sounded like they were on a cell phone in heavy traffic.
I paused, recognizing the background sound on his phone to be very close to the sounds I was hearing outside our own car, and then I asked "Are you driving a white van driving on 280?'.
'Yes' said the voice on the other end of the phone in relatively broken english. I was talking to the driver of the van!
As soon as I realized that, i lost it, as well as having lost the realization that my two children were sitting in the back seats, intently listening to every word I said and making mental notes that would be recalled in about 13 years when they start driving themselves.
"You drive like an asshole', I said loudly, continuing to explain that we'd had to pull aside, and that he had no right to endanger our lives and that of our children.
Now, let's remember that I am the one that grew up in LA, not my wife. So you'd expect that the first person to hesitate to engage in a verbal battle with another driver would be me, not her, but that was not the case. My words and actions set her off on a tirade of her own regarding how there's nut cases out there, people get shot, etc etc etc. Meanwhile the carpet cleaning clod was loudly responding to me but i could not clearly hear his words, as my wife's words and the sound of traffic from both his phone and our car made it indiscernible.
So i hung up. I don't know what he said or how crazy he may or may not have been, but in any event i'd not called to chat or, honestly, even look for a resolution or closure to the matter. I'd said my peace, called him a few four letter words, asserted my masculinity and demonstrated my willingness to step up and defend the safety of my family. All that was left was to bend a metal pipe with my bare hands.
By then we'd moved to the right to exit, and traffic had backed up somewhat so we had to slow down and attempt to merge into the exit lane. As we worked our way into the exit lane, and as I looked back along the passenger side to help guide my wife, I noticed, a few cars back, also working their way in the same direction, a white business van.
As my wife was talking about one thing or another and we inched our way towards the off ramp, her voice began to echo and fade and my mind started to envision the fight-or-flight situation i was about to head into. By now, I was steadily watching the white van, and it was only one or two cars behind us as we approached the off ramp. It was following every move we made. I tried to rationalize that, perhaps it was just another white business van, but as it neared us, now only one car away, i could clearly make out the words 'Carpet', backwards, through the side mirror.
I'm not a fighter by nature. In fact, by nature, i'm more of a bleeder. But when it comes down to an encounter that might involve the safety of my wife and family at the hands of some pissed off carpet cleaning madman behind the wheel of a larger vehicle, well, i was ready to rumble. I'd already started practicing my 'shoulder lift-back curve' move, expecting i'd appear larger and in doing so, send this Scott Farkis wannbe on his way, lest I be cornered and have to get all Ralphie on his ass. Of course, another option running on a parallel track in my mind was to assume the fetal position and hope he'd just assume i was dead and move along.
At the first stop light, the van pulled to the far right of the shoulder and began to drive along the line of cars, where they'd be directly at my window in only a moment. I placed my hand on the door handle and prepared to either hear profanity shouted at our car, have their door open and have to open mine as well so we'd be on equal playing ground, or see a white flash and smell gun powder. Gun powder, and of course, mama's fresh cooked apple pie sittin' on the window sill, coolin' in the breeze of an Alabama autumn. And that would have sucked 'cause it'd have been somebody else's life flashing before my eyes.
Surprisingly, there was not exchange of words, no physical encounter, and not even a menacing stare as they slowed while passing. They drove right by, close enough for me to see the driver not even glance over, and close enough for me to read the side of the van and, believe it or not, discover that it actually was a different white carpet cleaning business van.
I kid you not. A completely different while carpet cleaning business van followed us off the freeway just moments after I had telephoned that first one and ripped into them. What are the odds? In your life, and that of pretty much every other person on this planet besides me, well they're pretty high. For me, it seems to be even money.
As they drove past, I silently signed in relief, I let go of the handless grip i'd placed on the leather of the seat beneath me, and my wife's words began to return to clarity and to the forefront of my attention. I never said a thing about this to my wife. The first time she hears about this will be when she reads this entry.
I still hate that people drive like that, and i'll still call any and every time i can when a business vehicle bearing a logo or phone nbr pulls that on me. But perhaps the next time I directly reach the driver of the vehicle, I'll make sure they're well ahead of me and that there's no similar vehicles in the rear view mirror before launching into a four letter marathon.