 |
.gif){kind=logo} |
Menu
Short stories are the hardest form of writing. Leave something out and they're pointless. Tell too much and they're ugly. I call my collection
Scars & Nonsense.
Flipped (for the Lummox Journal)
By Todd E. Jackson
written: 11/23/3 (in poem form)
submitted: July 18, 2006
It’s one of those rare moments when I know for certain I’m better than other people. For two miles I’ve been averaging five miles an hour. I made it through downtown L.A. and thought I was scot free, but something happened and instead of going eighty-plus on my way to the workshop in San Pedro – to which I am already late – I am on and off the brakes and my clutch foot is getting a severe workout.
Now, it may just be that I'm about to share my art, or that I have someone to love at home, but I’m not mad. In fact, I’m actually concerned for whoever caused this Sunday afternoon fuck-up on the one-ten freeway. My concern fades as the traffic continues and I think about other things like following in John Thomas’ footsteps and becoming the 2004 Lummox of the Year. I even have time to talk myself down from such lofty goals; it’s not like I’ve been poeting for thirty-plus years, I’m just really good at it.
After two more miles the cause of the delay is apparent. Some guy flipped his green Toyota pickup. It’s upside-down, pointed the wrong way in the second lane from the right with the roof partially collapsed and something hanging out the door, possibly a severed seat belt. Two cars slide between me and the accident, so I can’t see anything else for a moment. I think about the person/persons at the epicenter of this back-up and hope they’re okay. When I can see the wreckage again, and the dark-red blood where the driver’s head had hit the freeway, I know it’s unlikely.
I turn my attention back to the road ahead, taking a moment to send my blessings to the soul which almost certainly ended twenty feet from me, when some fucknut in a brand-new Land Cruiser lays on his horn behind me. I look up and see this piece of middle-age puke flailing his hands at me and flashing his parking lights and yelling and I damn near lose my mind. Instead, I slowly raise my middle finger and hold it up high so he can plainly see how much I love him and care about his day through my rear window. Then I take off. I mean I dust this clown so bad that he burns up two or three gallons of gas just trying to see where I went.
Once I settle down, I wonder: Where is that guy going in such a hurry? It’s possible that he has a family emergency, or maybe he knows someone who was just in an accident of their own and he couldn’t make it to their side because he was delayed like the rest of us. So I slow down and wait for Mr. Honk-E Land Cruiser, thinking: This is the difference between myself and other drivers: I escape my own vehicle and imagine, even try to empathize with, what’s happening in the cars around me. I look at traffic as a whole – a tiny diagram of society acted out by individuals living lives, not just people driving cars.
Well the cock-suckin’ bag of yak ‘nad finally catches me. He’s wearing a fucking piss yellow shirt and he is not going fast, in fact, and I swear this should be an executable offense, the son of a bitch is on the phone. Just chattin’ to some other worthless human on another stupid fucking cell phone. God, if I had a gun ...
I follow him for a few miles, making sure to hide a couple lanes over so he doesn’t notice me. He’s not in a hurry. He’s not speeding. He’s not passing anybody. He’s just a dick. I bet he’s not even doing anything later, just headed home to his miserable little fucking life where possessions are more important than humans. Then I have an epiphany: The traffic was caused by this stupid piece of shit and others like him who think they are so important that they race to the bumper of the car in front of them and slam on the brakes, upset that the whole universe won’t move out of their way. Then comes the wave, the sea, the red flood of brake lights – my most hated thing in the world. Holy shit. Was I pissed then.
This urine stain, I thought, this useless butt plug had ruined my buzz and squashed the little prayer I wanted to say for the flipped pick-up and the souls attached to it AND he had caused brake lights. You should know I rarely get angry while driving alone, even in horrible traffic. I simply want to arrive – doesn’t matter when. If I’ve left late I expect to be late. Those are the consequences. Also, shit happens. However, very few things vanish entirely depending on your arrival time. Old yellow in his Land Cruiser didn’t understand this simple rule of life – he honks at the scene of an accident, at Good Samaritan me, no less.
I decide to pull up beside his over-priced SUV and give him a look meant to say: DRIVE NICELY FROM NOW ON. I zoom in and set up right beside him, staring. He sees me and flinches. His big, clumsy truck lurches awkwardly when he hits the brakes and weaves over a few of the yellow lines separating him from the carpool lanes before he finally pulls it together. ‘Guess I gave him a little scare,’ I think, as I watch the scene in my rearview mirror. A Camry and a Civic swerve to avoid him.
Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hat is pulled low over a pair of sinister sunglasses. I haven’t shaved in a month and my hair is whipping around my shoulders in knots. The moment ended. I felt bad for losing my temper. How much better than him can I be if I’m busy calling him bad names and shit?