It was a little white Nissan Versa being driven by someone who attends, or knows somebody who attends, the Eastman School of Music at the University of Rochester. They also bought their car at BlueKnob Auto Sales. I know these things because I got close enough to this person's rear end to read the decal stuck to the back hatchback window and the license plate holder that read the name of the dealership. I could also tell that it was either a woman, SideShow Bob or Anderson Varejao because of the curly mop on the person's head. And SideShow Bob is (allegedly) a fictional charater, and Varejao is a 7 foot tall basketball player that could never fit in a Versa, so it was a woman (not saying whether that's a relavent factor or not, you decide).
Now, this wouldn't be a big deal at all if I were at a redlight stuck behind this person, but we were moving. On an interstate. I was braking, coming down from slightly over the posted speed limit of 65 miles per hour, which, let's be honest, nobody even makes an attempt to follow unless there's a police officer in the vicinity, to something like five to 10 mph less than the posted speed limit.
This person was traveling in what they like to call "the fast lane." It's the lane on the left side of the two lanes of a highway that are going in the same direction. And, for those of you who aren't in the know (and I've found that an astounding number of people in the areas of the eastern United States I've driven around in since I acquired my license don't) it is the lane of the highway that's reserved for people who are passing traffic traveling in the right lane of the highway.
So, if you're not passing somebody, get the fuck out of the left lane. Especially if there are other cars directly behind you. I thought this was a rule that everyone was taught when they were learning to drive, just like how you're supposed to use a turn signal when you're turning or stop at a stop sign. In fact, it's a law to stay right in most states, including Pennsylvania (where I've lived pretty much all my life). In Pennsylvania, you're supposed to stay right unless passing or making room for cars to merge into traffic from on-ramps.
I've dealt with people "hanging out in the fast lane," as my parents call it, more times than I can count in the six years of my driving career, and it's always gotten me frustrated, but I never did anything drastic. I would just get up on the person's tail and pretty much "body" them into the left lane. Nobody likes being tailgated, myself included, and I've found that this is usually an adequate way to get the person to move over when they have some room. It causes a momentary spike in my stress levels, especially when it disrupts my fucking cruise control settings, but I get over it and move on with my life.
This time was different, though. This lady in the left hand lane would not move over, and I, along with about six other cars directly behind me, was becoming livid. I first attributed this to the fact that I'm a very impatient and aggressive driver. I wasn't always this way, but somewhere along the way it changed, and I became a pissy and easily agitated traveler when people wouldn't acquiesce to my haste to get wherever it was I was going. I've found this strange, because I am, by nature, a kind of slow moving person. My family likes to refer to me as Uncle Jack, after my Grandma's brother who was always so late for things that they'd say he was going to be late to his funeral. (Funny story, he actually was. The hearse got a flat tire and the whole procession had to come to a halt in the middle of the road.) I have an inordinate tendency to always fuck up my timing, on everything. It always takes me longer to get ready for something than I thought it should, and because of this I'm always running late. So, I have to compensate for this by driving a little too fast and aggressively at times. Today, I was on my way to meet the woman I was hoping would become my new landlord, so that I could see an apartment in her building. I was, of course, running late, and this fucking lady in the Versa wasn't helping me at all.
I was also impatient, because for some reason I'd picked the night before to come to the realization that you can't really do anything useful while you're driving a car. (This can be attributed to the fact that I've been driving 40-45 minutes to and from work everyday, one trip after 10 p.m. at night when all I want to be doing is having some wine, which you can't do while driving if you didn't know.) This happened when I decided to listen to game one of the NBA Finals as I drove, and realized when I got home that I was pretty much just bored by listening to it and that I could've just turned the game on upon my arrival. The score wouldn't have been much different, and anything I heard on the radio that seemed phenomenal could be seen on the postgame Sports Center recap that I pretty much always watch anyway. You can listen to music, sure. That's one of my favorite things to do in the world. You can also listen to the news, which I should be doing. But it just doesn't seem practical to me. You can get where you're going, sit down and listen to music while you read the entire world news briefs on The Daily Beast's Cheat Sheet in about five minutes. Then you can listen to music while you do other shit that doesn't involve looking through a windshield, like cooking, shooting hoops or singing in the shower. To state it plainly: There's nothing useful you can do inside a car--while it's moving--that you can't do outside of a car that's really that interesting, beyond the simple act of driving.
So, since I was at my wits' end, I decided to do something drastic; something I'd never done (seriously) in my entire driving career, unless it was in jest toward one of my family members or friends. I was going to wait until I had an opportunity to get up next to this lady, and while parallel to her, I was going to beep and flip her off. I don't know why I'd never done this before, but it was kind of a point of pride for me to have not done it. I enjoyed telling people I'd never done it, because it doesn't really mesh with the way I normally express myself in a verbal way.
It was a woman, a girl even, depending on your definiton. She couldn't have been older than 25. I immediately decided not to blow my horn and flip this person off, and decided instead to simply drive past her as quickly as possible and continue on with my life as far away from her as possible. This was difficult to do, because I was burning with frustration and yearned to give her the international symbol for "fuck you." I was looking forward to it.
But, when I turned and saw this woman, I realized this bitch was sending a fucking text message. She had both hands on the phone and was more or less steering with her elbows, giving the interstate cursory glances every few seconds, kind of like I do when I'm looking at and attractive girl in a public place, except I'm not endangering the lives of myself and everyone around me. I'm not Cyclops from the X-Men without his red glasses. (That statement there really illustrates why I spend my time glancing at attractive women instead of being in their company.) Since she was going so fucking slow and hadn't noticed the line of cars trailing behind her for the last three miles, I figured she was re-writing "The Great Gatsby" and was in a very deep concentration. So, I decided not to beep at her, because that certainly would've disturbed her and made her an even bigger hazard.
So, that's just one more reason why less time should be spent in the car. It only gets more and more dangerous.
I can't think of a time in my life where I've wanted a DeLorean so badly, so that I can drive back in time, before texts were invented. Maybe back then people were sensible enough to stay out of the fucking fast lane.
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