Impotent Rage

The guy in the truck in front of me is starting to piss me off. He's driving sixty miles an hour in a sixty-five mile an hour zone in the left lane. It wouldn't bother me as much if he was just slow and had no idea of the etiquette of the road. If you're in the leftmost lane, you're supposed to go fast, and if you don't, you move over so someone can. But this guy has gone fast. I've seen it. He was just going eighty before, back when I was happy, when he wasn't slowing down my five hour drive.

But now he's slowed down to sixty for no apparent reason, so I'm not annoyed or angry. I am pissed.

I tailgate him and my headlights flood his cabin. I figure that should send the message, but he doesn't budge. I am powerless because I'm boxed in by another car directly to my right.

Finally, there is an opening, and I gun the engine, hoping to pass him on the right, but another car in the rightmost lane cuts me off because he's passing somebody slower than him on his right. I apply my brakes until he's back in his slower right lane.

I press down on the gas pedal and my tachometer whirs upward. I am about to pass the truck--my front bumper is parallel with his rear bumper--when he cuts me off. This time I slam my brakes because that's the only way to avoid the accident. Up until this point, I just had assumed he was oblivious, but now I think he's just messing with me.

When I have the opportunity, I slip into the stream of cars on the left that are speeding by the truck. As I pass him, I hurl a series of obscenities at him that I would never repeat in polite company. I give him the finger for good measure.

It's dark and my windows are closed, so he doesn't hear or see me. It doesn't matter. I feel better already.