Aaron R. Davis
Living in a college town is especially wonderful if you don’t care what happens to your car. It’s unfortunate, then, that I do care what happens to Flynn, my 1996 Ford Escort. I don’t remember how long I’d actually lived here when I came out to find her passenger door had been effectively smashed. Yes, the kids here are so dumb that they can’t swerve to avoid parked cars. Maybe if they didn’t drive through parking lots at 35 mph, but whatever.
Driving on the road with these entitled little bitches isn’t exactly a joy either. A bunch of whinybabies who have no business behind the wheel, and they have to drive everywhere, no matter how close it is. All over town, driving 10 to 25 miles over the speed limit, making sharp curves around blind corners, driving the wrong way on a one-way street (yes, I have seen this, many times), and not realizing that they’re pulling out right in front of you until they’re halfway there.
And, if the police blotter is remotely accurate, at least 38 percent are drunk and/or high and/or uninsured and/or unlicensed and/or have a suspended license and/or have a failure to appear warrant out on them. I wonder if a cop wins a prize if he pulls over somebody with all of the above.
Yesterday was kind of typical of these punk kids. Sometimes it’s hard to pull out of my apartment complex, especially in the morning between 7:30 and 9:30. I live on a major street, and there’s just a lot of traffic. So, I’m waiting for some semis and such to drive past me on their way to the I-39 exit, and this girl behind me in an Oldsmobile Alero decides that two minutes is quite long enough for her to wait. Cigarette cocked in her mouth, sour look on her face, she honks at me. And it’s a slightly sustained honk, too, about five seconds long. Well, I can’t drive through trucks, so I just shrug and put up my hands. Sorry, your majesty. Life sucks, get a helmet.
Finally, almost a minute later, when I can pull out, she tears off after me. The street is wet from rain, and as I make the left turn into the left lane heading east, I hear her tires spinning on the pavement. After nearly getting hit by a garbage truck barreling towards her, she gets into the median lane, which is only for people on both sides making left turns. She gets next to me and does that swerve thing, pretending she’s going to hit me. I immediately start itemizing a list of what she’s going to pay to fix if she hits my car (no, your honor, my transmission was fine before the accident). Bitch speeds past me, cuts me off and darts ahead of me doing at least 45 in a 30. Then she slows down and we hit a red light. Apparently, she’s going to teach me a lesson about making her wait, because when the light turns green, she waits. And waits.
Frankly, I find her infantile behavior painfully funny at this point, and I start laughing so loud that she can hear me in her car. That just pisses her off, and as I make the “come on, let’s go” motion with my hand, she gives me the finger. Look, only dumb people give the finger, alright? It’s not clever, it doesn’t hurt my feelings and it just confirms my opinion of you as a dumbshit Neanderthal who shouldn’t even be driving, anyway.
“Are we going, or not?” I call out my window. Well, gee, I thought she was in a hurry.
All I can think of are the poor anesthesiologist and nursing staff waiting with a knocked-out patient for the brain surgeon to arrive.
Finally, she rushes off, remembering her appointment with the political dignitaries (well, it’s not like they’re going to wait for her). All she’s really done is given me enough time to write down her license plate number for later use. I mean, the fucking idiot lives in my apartment complex, it’s not like I haven’t found out where she parks yet. Moron.
My first thought was to call the police and give them her plate number, telling them that some woman was driving erratically and at high speeds, weaving in and out of traffic, and had tried to run me off the road. My second thought was to find out who she was and contact the parents who probably gave her the car so I could let them know that the next time their precious little darling sociopath harasses me it’ll be a legal matter. But now I think I might just let the air out of her tires.
Or I won’t do anything, because, honestly, what the fuck do I care?
Great job, parents. You’ve raised an entire generation of impatient, entitled me-monkeys who wouldn’t think twice about killing or maiming somebody just to get three blocks.
Anyway, just for the hell of it, I just came up with some rules. I wish I could post these around town for the college babies. Although the City Council seems willing to do anything that makes life more difficult for these kids, so who knows?
1. I drive the speed limit. 30 mph too slow for you? I don’t care. Go around me. And don’t do that thing where you pretend you’re going to hit me, because I will let you, and then you can explain to the cops how you’re too good to go the posted speed limit.
2. Don’t expect me to care or even know that you’re late for something. It’s not my problem that you’re too lazy to leave on time. I’m not going to speed up just because you’re late.
3. Honking and/or tailgating means one thing to me: you want me to slow down.
4. I don’t care what you do in front of me, just do it fast.
5. If you cut me off, at least give me the goddamn common courtesy of a signal. If you fail to signal, I don’t know where you’re going, so don’t be incredulous when I ram you and then claim the accident was your fault.
7. Don’t signal AFTER you’ve already started turning. What’s the point now? I already know where you’re going, you impatient little idiot.
8. Turn off your signal after you’ve made the turn. Stop making me guess what you’re doing. Show me a little goddamn courtesy and I will do the same.
9. Look both ways before pulling out, not as you’re pulling out.
10. Pedestrians do not have the right of way. My car is a constant on the road. You have to take that into account when you’re darting out in front of me, even when you see me coming. If you’re jaywalking across five lanes of traffic, don’t be surprised if you end up in the hospital.
Follow those rules and we’ll all get along, you dig?
Aaron R. Davis lives in a cave at the bottom of the ocean with his eyes shut tight and his fingers in his ears. You can contact him at firstname.lastname@example.org.