Close Encounters

At times, Mickey Studebaker was known as being crotchety, easily irritable, but none of those words described the level of frustration that he was currently facing. The furniture delivery truck just ahead of him on the road had already weaved in and out of his lane two times already. The driver was obviously incompetent!

Everyone else was just driving past the truck. Some honked, but no one was really doing anything about it. Mickey hated it when people stood by while morons ran the world. He remembered that most of these types of trucks had phone numbers printed on the back for driving feedback. He thought he saw one there and moved over behind the truck and inched closer.

He could see the number now. It was preceded by the usual question, "How's my driving?"

"Well, I'd be happy to tell them," he muttered to himself while he fumbled for his phone.

He didn't have his ear piece adapter for the phone, so he drove with one hand while he dialed with the other.

"Hello?"

"Yea," said Mickey. "I have a complaint about one of your drivers. This fella has been coming in and out of my lane without signaling for about 10 minutes now. It's ridiculous. How do you train these drivers of yours?!"

"Sir, we do not represent the actual companies that employ the drivers. We only take down feedback from callers. We provide this service for many companies. Perhaps you can give me the name of the company and the ID number of the truck."

"It's Mona's Furniture, but I don't know where the damn number is," he said irritably.

"It's usually on the back of the truck near where the phone number is, sir."

"Okay, okay. Let me see," he said as he eased closer to the truck.

"Sir, I really must suggest that you not drive while we speak. Perhaps you could get the number and then call us back?"

"I know what I'm doing," Mickey grumbled. He wasn't about to have someone tell him what he could or couldn't do.

He squinted as he started reading off the numbers. "5...3...1...5..."

Up ahead, a speed trap started a slow-down domino effect. When the Mona's Furniture truck hit its brakes, old Mickey was still reading off the last three numbers. Concentrating on the numbers, and being so close to the truck already, he had no time to brake, and promptly smacked the rear bumper of the truck. His airbag exploded out of the steering column, knocked the phone from his hand, and covered his face in dust.

"Sir, are you there?"