I pressed my brakes, firm and with intent. I thought of those suddenly surprised drivers who accidentally stomp on their accelerators, causing their vehicles to rush towards barricades, overpasses, or hydrants. Airbags blown, bloody noses, and hopefully alive.

The road I was driving on had one lane of traffic in each direction and a newly painted double neon yellow line dividing eastbound from west. It was a sunny, late afternoon and the yellow paint shimmied with the lowering sun. The car behind honked intermittently as I began to slow my pace. The driver couldn’t see what I saw, but nonetheless let me know he was miffed. In my rearview mirror he shook his head at me, gesturing with both hands above the wheel. I waved back kindly and pointed forward, nearly touching my windshield so he could see my gesture. He honked repeatedly, his hands now gripping the wheel.

In front of me by about a distance of two car lengths I watched the events unfold; an odd dance between two angry men, both stuck in heavy traffic at the end of a long week. One was driving a pickup truck, a recent model, the other was driving a sedan, maybe from the late eighties, with dark pin stripe details along the door and scratches above the rear wheel well. I was able to note the detail of the sedan because it passed me a few moments earlier by veering into oncoming traffic on my left, and slipping into the tidy space between the pickup truck and myself.

As best as I could see, further down the road, most brake lights were alit with red and the cars were stunting in stop and go motions. We were barely traveling above 20 mph, heading towards a four-lane bridge that merged back into two lanes on the other side. There was no place for the sedan to go.

The sedan then jutted to the left, again into oncoming traffic, and aimed to pass the pickup. Pickup-man didn’t like that. Seeing sedan-man make the move, pickup-man also jutted to the left, blocking sedan-man. Sedan-man then attempted to cut back, to pass pickup-man on the right, now that there was a gap between himself and the loose gravel shoulder. Pickup-man didn’t like that either and swerved back, tossing his truck onto his two left wheels from the torque. The pickup slugged down, bounced a little, and swerved again. The sedan braked. I braked. The gentleman behind me honked his horn.

I should have pulled over, but we were now almost at the bridge. A relief, I said to myself, plenty of room for passing. It was then that pickup-man waved what appeared to be a steel rod out of his window, brandishing it backwards towards the sedan. It gleamed of shimmering stars. Sedan-man waved his fist out of the window, seeming to stand up on his seat in order to get most of his body out of the frame and began taunting, while driving, the pickup-man with finger-formed expletives. The pickup man tried another approach. He lifted the metal rod out through his sunroof, waving it like a flagpole, making sure sedan-man could see it in this brave new way. See, I can wave it at you with my left hand AND my right.

We approached the bridge. RELIEF from the MADNESS, I said aloud. But pickup-man seemed to have made new calculations and attempted a blunt strategy. Instead of choosing one of the two newly available lanes, he chose the middle way and blocked them both. Sedan-man zig-zagged from side to side, lane to lane, attempting to pass the pick-up truck. His tires leaving gray skids across the old concrete. All the while the pickup man was revving and lurching forward to tailgate the two cars in front of it. There was really no place for the sedan to go.

Now that we had reached the bridge, and this scene was clearly on display for  all behind me, I figured all those drivers pensively braking in single file could now see why I was traveling so cautiously. I was sure to be redeemed from the horn honking gentleman, maybe a wave of forgiveness, a nod of recognition. As I pulled towards the right, the gentleman behind me sped up, I could hear the engine drop down a gear and rev. He passed me on my left and attempted to pass the zagging sedan in front of us. He got next to the sedan, put a tire on the median, and did his best to also pass the pickup truck. Like a trio of darting flies aggressively picking at each other, these three motorists continued the dance through the merge and up to the next red light where they stopped.

That’s it, I thought, a red light! They’re going get out of their cars! Pickup-man is going to wave his steel rod, Sedan-man is going to swing his arms wildly. A fight!

Nope. Idling at the light they yelled at each other through their windshields and rear windows. A muffled rumble of muted sweet somethings. The light turned green and they started again. Swerving, nudging, testing. I turned at the next intersection and watched their dance fade uphill towards my right and out of my vision. The train of cars followed in close pursuit, off to fulfill their weekends.

As I drove down the hill and away from the main street I daydreamed of airplanes. Of the solitude within the quiet, low hiss of air. The tightly seated passengers nestled into magazines, music players, and pillows. The relinquishing of navigation upon cushions of air, 30,000 feet above anything that matters. Of the solemn permission to allow your neighbor passage to the lavatory.

At that great speed, we all seem to slow down. We timidly control ourselves, fearful that by any jarring of our company we could risk the careful symmetry of sets and rows. Or worse yet, cause a malfunction through our rudeness that could either send us plummeting through clouds or deliver us to gate more than five minutes late. Slick air cutting airplane that takes me places in the quietness of a nursery. Fast bounding airplane my ears are padded by your gravity. Airplane bright sky cool air home.

Later that day I turned on the television to watch the local news, something I rarely do anymore. The top five stories were highlighted by a graphic along the left side of the screen. They blared in drop shadow the important news that I needed to know right now, RIGHT NOW, RIGHT NOW: child abuse, house fire, joblessness, and celebrity incarceration.

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After working at a handful of start-ups (and before that, 6 years of art school) Jason Moriber helped launch Wise Elephant, a business/marketing strategy and tactics firm, where he is the Director of Strategy. Jason has an MFA in drawing, has played in 4 bands, created and implemented programs for auditors, start-ups, and organic farmers, and am in constant awe of the amazing people he learns about, meets, and fortunately gets to work with. You can read more of Jason’s writing at the Wise Elephant Blog and on NewCommBiz. Engage with Jason on Twitter: @jelefant

Tagged in: local news, road rage, traffic