You f*@$in’ f*%@!
Shane and I were driving home from the library one fine Sunday, windows down, sun shining, enjoying the breeze. Suddenly a motorcycle with two passengers roared past me on the left, swerving barely in time to avoid being hit by oncoming traffic.
The motorcyclist thrust up his middle finger and roared on.
Huh, I thought, he must not like the Steelers. I have a huge Steelers football magnet on the back of my minivan.
We drove several miles, and came to a light behind the very same motorcycle. The driver glared into his rearview mirror. Then he gave me the finger again.
Oblivious, I thought, maybe he’s just talking to the woman on the back of the bike. Some people gesture a lot when they talk.
The road was two lanes now, and I was inching past him to get to another stoplight when he gave me the finger for a third time.
This time, I was sure that finger was meant for me. I had no idea what it was about, but I felt sure that I should be standing up for myself. So I shrugged and, since I already had my arm out the window, I gave him the finger right back.
So he snapped.
He marched his motorcycle up between the two lanes of traffic so that he could bellow right into the driver’s side window.
“You f*@$in’ f*%@!” he screamed at me. “You f*%$in knew that I was f*#$in passin’ you and you f*%$in sped up, you f*%$in a%$*hole!”
“Really?” I asked, incredulous. “That’s what you think?” I was dumbfounded.
The woman on the back of the motorcycle was saying, “shhhh…” and trying to cover his mouth. He nearly bit her.
“You’re f*#$in right, you f@*#in f@&^!”
“Let’s just go!” the woman pleaded.
Cars honked behind us. The man revved the gas and roared away, having said his piece.
Shane was in the back seat. “That was interesting language,” he said.
As a mom, I try to plan for every eventuality. I am learning, every day, that one can never plan for any eventuality.
I drove very calmly for another three miles. I didn’t want Shane to be afraid, so I didn’t even let my voice waver.
“Some people just don’t have any other way to express their anger,” I told him. “Anger comes from fear, and he was afraid that I was trying to kill him with my car.”
But I also wanted to make sure Shane knew that I could handle the unwarranted attack. I wondered what I should have said, besides “really?” I was calm, but didn’t really get my point across.
Then as luck would have it, at another light, I pulled up right next to the motorcycle.
If it hadn’t been for Shane, I would have likely slunk away without another word. But the boy needed a positive role model.
“Hey,” I yelled at them.
The driver stared straight ahead. The woman in the back said, “Yeah?”
“I honestly never saw you,” I told her.
“Oh, that’s okay,” she assured me. “We aren’t wearing bright colors or anything.”
“I mean, I wasn’t paying any attention to you,” I said. “I was just driving.”
“I know,” she said. “He just thought you did it on purpose.” She patted her man like he was a trained monkey.
I aimed my next comment at him, and said it loud. “Not everyone is out to get you.”
“He just didn’t know,” she said, still patting him. “I’m sorry.”
She probably spends most of her life cleaning up after this man’s idiocy.
“My 10-year-old didn’t appreciate the language,” I told her.
She looked in the back of the minivan for the first time. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Honey,” she said to Shane.
Then the light changed, and we went our separate ways.