Friday, March 11, 2005


I Am Not A Violent Man.

Like Rodney Dangerfield used to say, I'm a lover, not a fighter.

Alright, I'm not too much of a lover, either.

Ahem. Moving on. . .

After work Thursday night I had to run a few errands. While out and about, I stopped behind an interminable line of traffic at a light.

Tapping my fingers on the wheel, I looked up into the mirror, staring at my rugged, "Fred Ward in Remo Williams-The-Adventure Begins" good looks, when I noticed a couple in the car behind me.

The driver, a woman-- girl, really-- looked to be in her early twenties, brown hair, perhaps Central American. Pretty girl.

The passenger, a man-- boy, really-- looked like a cross between Ed Norton in American History X and Screech Powers.

They were obviously arguing. Loudly. Well, she wasn't arguing too much; she was staring ahead. But the guy in the car was waving his hands like crazy, either simulating a gangsta video, or trying to wipe away the imaginary spiders floating in front of his drug-addled eyes.

Because the traffic sucked so hard, I got to watch this for a lonnng time, more than five minutes. The boy just kept getting more and more agitated, while I could see the girl begin to get pretty upset. How she kept from balling her eyes out, or walking out of the car, I couldn't fathom.

The boy kept rocking back and forth, then started smashing his fists against the dash of the car, all the while screaming like a madman (or, at least he looked like he was screaming-- I couldn't hear, what with my Wiggles CD playing full blast).

It was at this point I started looking around my car for something, anything that could be used as a weapon. A tire iron, a pen, a fistful of Altoid dust. Because I honestly expected this guy to start wailing on his girlfriend/wife/trick. I knew that if I stepped out of the car to intervene, this guy was not going to play friendly.

And, if you ever met me, you know I couldn't harm a fly. No, really-- flies laugh at me, I'm that much of a weakling. At the beach, women kick sand in my face. That said, I wasn't about to let some punksnot hit a girl.

The traffic light changed. We moved forward.

As we moved forward, that's when I noticed: there was a child in the car, in a safety seat in the back.

They turned one way, I turned the other. The "story" ended there.

Who the hell *are* these people? How broken does a man have to be to yell at *anyone* like that? Let alone a woman, assumably their wife? Let alone with a child-- assumably their child-- in the car?

I just don't get people sometimes.

Comments: Post a Comment

<< Home

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?