(Originally published at The International Society of Supervillains in 2009. All rights reserved.)
Dear Angry Motorist:
Hi. Remember me? I’m the girl who was driving the white sedan downtown this afternoon.
Are you familiar with physics? I’m not exactly a top scientist, but I do know a little bit about physics. For example, did you know that there’s a law that states two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time? It’s fascinating, really. I’d venture a guess that you’re not familiar with that law, though, since you were filled with such rage when I stopped my car on the street. I did so to prevent the unpleasant event of colliding with the line of cars stopped in front of me.
I understand that sometimes we’re in a hurry. Really, I do. I understand that sometimes we have business meetings that put our careers on the line, or that we forget that we left the oven on and need to hurry home so that we don’t burn that batch of brownies (or the house), or we need to go to the bathroom while we’re on the road (and there are very few situations more uncomfortable than needing to use the facilities when you’re trapped in a two-ton hunk of steel in the middle of the city and unable to pull over). I do understand this. Whatever the case may be, I wish to draw your attention once again to the above stated law of physics, which assures us that my car could not possibly occupy the same space as the line of cars in front of me when those cars were still there.
When you leaned on the horn with all the patience and tranquility of a rabid wolverine and made vehement hand gestures at me in the mirror, I sympathized with your impatience. I had places I would have preferred to be as well. As a matter of fact, I was on my way home after a long day of classes. Trust me when I tell you that the last place I wanted to be right then was trapped on a one-way street, and in front of your vehicle, no less.
I would have been perfectly understanding (albeit slightly annoyed) if you had simply beeped your horn and waved your hands at me, but you didn’t stop there, did you? No, you did not. You actually opened your door, put one foot on the pavement, and screamed at me from a position halfway in and halfway out of your vehicle. Your guttural, inarticulate cries were accompanied by more of the same crude and aggressive hand gestures, which were much less off-putting when performed in the safety of your locked automobile.
When you stepped out into the street, you crossed a line.
The line of traffic began to move at last, and as we inched forward you ensured that nothing short of an anorexic pixie would be able to squeeze between your front bumper and my rear bumper. I would also like to indicate that I was quite aware of the behemoth size of your vehicle in comparison to mine. Do you realize how unsettling it is when someone in a vehicle substantially larger than your own is so close behind you that you can almost feel the shifting molecules between the two bumpers? If you don’t, it is very unsettling.
We reached the intersection at long last, and the street opened up. Ignoring all traffic laws, you swerved around me and sped past amid a cloud of what I can only assume were obscenities of so vulgar a nature that a convicted felon would cringe. Would you like to know what I saw when you did this? I saw your license plate.
I have an excellent memory.
Had you not gone a different route than mine at that moment, your license plate number would have been rattled off flawlessly to the local police along with the color and manufacturer of your vehicle, as well as a physical description of your very irate self. I managed to obtain a very good look at you while you spewed verbal venom at me through my rear-view mirror.
Angry Motorist, I didn’t antagonize you. I was actually listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers while we were stuck on that one-way street downtown. Do you know how mellow the Red Hot Chili Peppers are? Their music is rather uplifting, particularly the album Stadium Arcadium. I would recommend them to anyone, especially when driving, because they seem to dramatically improve my own mood.
I returned home safely, I’m sure you are happy to know, and I’m not upset with you anymore. Really, I’m not. I just want to tell you something.
I have your license plate number committed to memory, as well as written down in several protected locations in my home and workplace. I also have a physical description of yourself and your vehicle. The internet is an amazing thing, isn’t it? You’d be amazed how much information you can gather about a person with these minor details.
I sincerely hope that whatever was bothering you this afternoon has subsided. Whatever caused you to verbally assault me and then drive in such an aggressive and dangerous manner must have been terrible, and I sincerely hope that it’s over now. I would really like you to sit back this evening with your drink of choice (perhaps a glass of dry red wine from a small yet charming vineyard in northern California) and pleasant music in your ears. I want you to close your eyes and feel utterly at peace with the world.
I then hope that you choke on your wine and end up spewing it out of your nostrils with such velocity that it not only stains everything you own within a ten foot radius, but also fills your cranium with a horrific burning sensation that will not subside for days, and then curdles in your belly so that you spend the weekend bent over a toilet evacuating your stomach and bowels simultaneously for a minimum of 36 straight hours.
Have a lovely weekend, Angry Motorist, and remember to drink lots of fluids.
With warmest regards,
Lady Unpleasantries
