Road Rage and the Average Girl

By Jennifer Nikolaus

I sat there in the shade of a fairly large tree holding an old photograph. It was a picture of some long ago time, forgotten I’m sure, of a young woman holding her child. She’s not looking at the camera, but she wears an expression of defiance, worry and fear, all at once. My bloodstained hands have left a few smudges on the photo’s edges, but other than that, it seems to be in pretty good shape for its age. A light breeze blows a stray hair across my face and I absently brush it away, leaving yet another streak of blood across my face. I must look a mess after the day I’ve had, but right now I’m okay...right here is good. It didn’t start this way…

The day started ho-hum and quickly progressed into the day from the ninth level of hell. Everything that could go wrong did, and I barely made it through with my sanity.

Had I known what the drive home had in store for me, I might have paused a bit before leaving. I saw him coming through the traffic behind me, weaving in and out, all shiny black and chrome. He pulled up next to me at the light before the freeway onramp – me in the turn lane, he in the next. As soon as the light turned, he peeled out and swerved dangerously close to my front bumper. Slamming on my brakes, my rage, which had been bubbling just a few inches under the surface, erupted in a horn and yelling tirade at the driver. He stopped, blocking any further progress onto the freeway, then just as suddenly, took off and turned onto the freeway, barely escaping oncoming traffic. I sat there at the light, adrenaline pumping, fuming. Trying to calm myself, I thought, “Well, at least I’ll never have to see that dbag again…” Wrong. Due to an accident, the traffic was backed up and there was no hope of getting onto the freeway, so I stayed on the ramp to get right back off. Guess who was right there to cut in front of me, clipping my front bumper in the process? Our friend in the shiny black car. “You filthy bastard!”

Looking back, I probably should have turned the other cheek and drove away...it would have been the sensible thing to do. Sense had jumped out of the passenger seat at that point, and I sped up and followed him. He could have outrun me, I’m sure, but I think he was relishing the game now, so he pulled into the first empty parking lot and stopped. I followed suit, turned off my engine, and got out. He got out of his car and walked toward the front of it, bending down to examine the front passenger side. You know how you get a picture of how someone is going to look based on their actions or voice, well, he looked exactly as I imagined: early 30s, white male, good shape from regular gym hours, a young urbanite.

He walked towards me. You scratched my car, and you are gonna pay for it?

I was speechless for a moment. I had scratched his car? There was a horrible scratch on my front bumper. “Screw that! You caused that when you cut me off, twice! I’m not paying for shit.”

“What did you say, you fat bitch?” He started toward me.

I gripped the tire iron I held at my side tighter. “Look, I've had a reeeally bad day, so just back off, alright? You fix yours, I’ll fix mine...we leave it at that.” This was the rational part of my brain speaking. The part that knew he could easily beat me if he wanted to.

“Fuck you! You are going to pay for the damage to my car!” Each word was emphasized with a finger point and step closer.

“I’m only gonna ask one more time, man. Back. Off.”

A sly grin crossed his face. “What are you gonna do? What would an ugly cunt like you do?”

Woah. I did not see that name coming. I guess I should have. Just like he should have seen the tire iron coming at his face.

Thwack!

I’m not the strongest woman, but I am big, and I threw everything I had into that first swing. He went down with a thud. I could have stopped right there, I had essentially won, but the rage and frustration of the day and years of being bullied by this kind of guy burst out of me like an alien from my chest. I slammed the tire iron down over and over until his head was more bloody mess than pretty boy. When I stopped, I was covered in blood and assorted pieces of goo. I took a deep breath and stepped back. Geez, what a mess. I looked around and noticed for the first time that we were actually at a park. I had been so keyed up, I hadn’t noticed where we stopped. I slowly walked toward the closest tree, dragging my weapon behind me. Wearily, I plopped onto the ground and leaned back against the tree.

There was a nice breeze starting up, which took turns drying the sweat and gore I was no doubt covered in. A gust of wind brought a paper right up to my leg, so I reached for it. It was a picture of some long ago time, forgotten I’m sure, of a young woman holding her child. She’s not looking at the camera, but she wears an expression of defiance, worry and fear, all at once. My bloodstained hands have left a few smudges on the photo’s edges, but other than that, it seems to be in pretty good shape for its age...