A bearded man with a crooked nose and fewer than his fair share of teeth gave me the finger the other day.
Flipped the bird, raised his middle digit, the one finger salute, raised from the rolled down window of a modified utility.
Seems I was inconveniencing the poor man by doing the speed limit. Not a kilometre over, nor a kilometre under. Just minding my own business in the left hand lane which just so happened to be going faster than the right.
Regardless of road rules, the gentleman in his wisdom, seemed to think that because we had the opportunity to speed, then that’s exactly what we should have been doing.
Wags, in the passenger seat, raised an eyebrow from Wanda’s lap.
Precisely, my furry friend. How should we deal with this situation which is clearly an injustice?
I could call council, but I’m smart enough to know that this is the responsibility of our state parliamentarians, the same people who believe youth crime is solved with a slap on the wrist and a good talking to.
Unlike the drivers of cheaply restored bombs who have no idea who is responsible for the pothole that last week took out their undercarriage that sits millimetres from the asphalt, I have regard for the rules.
I love where I live, but this is just the type of thing that’s steered an unfair reputation upon our fine city – a select few who perceive that aggression is power.
I may, however, be quick to judge.
It was mid-afternoon, so potentially, he was on his way to collect children – at least one of them his – from school.
And he was late due to a mishap at work that required in-depth knowledge and the responsibility of an experienced hand whose work ethic is so great it sometimes distracts him time pressures.
Oh, and maybe he knew the florist closed at 4pm; a frustration playing on his mind because he wanted to surprise his partner and the mother of at least one of his children with a bunch of flowers on her birthday.
And here I was, an ageing man in a broad-brimmed hat, daring to comply with road rules, stopping him from achieving his well-intentioned goals.
Or, he was just a moron.
Stereotypes can be deceiving, but the owner of a car with twin exhausts, in my opinion, sees their vehicle as a love affair – far more than a tool which, however comfortably, is designed to get a person, their companions, and their belongings from one point to another.
The louder the muffler, the higher the level of compensation, which is why I proceeded to raise my outer digit, the smaller one on adjacent to the ring finger and opposite the thumb.
It’s at that point Wanda slapped my hand.
You see, she rightly pointed out that road rage has leveled up on the 2020s, taking on a persona of violent video games.
Like an America where people carry guns, and ice picks, and knives to prove their point.
Once upon a time, we did it with words, and the more intelligent mind would often win.
It’s not like that now. The bogan with the biggest set of knuckle dusters, or a baseball bat in the boot, gets his way.
This guy did indeed get his due deserve, passed in a cloud of carbon dioxide that almost made the dog pass out.
That’s right, not the little bit of smoke that comes from a faulty exhaust. This was the type that makes a convoy of four cars behind it turn on their windscreen wipers to clear the haze that blocked their view of adjacent traffic.
Wanda’s reminder was not so much about his potential weaponry advantage; rather, as much about my lack of ju jitsu training, or karate prowess.
Never a fighter, any altercation of any type would put me at a disadvantage.
For starters, I’d have way more teeth to damage. Whiter, straighter teeth which resulted from a set of braces as a privileged teenager.
I’d have a haircut to mess with, cologne to scratch off, and fear written all over my fragile face.
I’m sorry, Wanda. I was caught in the moment. How insolent of me.
Next time, you do it.
