Old People

The other day, I was taking a leisurely drive through my neighborhood on my way to work. I was a little early, so I wasn’t in any rush. At some point, I became aware that there was a crazed maniac behind me, riding my ass like a pit bull on a fire hydrant. My first inclination was to get mad, but cooler heads prevailed, and I sped up, realizing that said crazed pit bull was probably in more of a hurry than I. When I was able, I moved out of the tailgater’s way. We both proceeded amicably—he getting where he was going faster, me getting to resume my dawdling. Hopefully, I helped that driver get to his appointment on time.

Not two days later, I was faced with the same situation, only the roles were reversed, and everything went horribly wrong. I had a massage appointment that day, and if I didn’t show in ten minutes, I would forfeit my happy ending. Everybody around me suffers on those days. So I was blasting down the local thoroughfare, trying desperately to make my rendezvous, when out of nowhere, a half-blind octogenarian with a “WWII veteran” sticker on his license plate pulled out in front of me and proceeded to swerve unhurriedly down the street like a drunken turtle. So pronounced was his swerving, I couldn’t even pass him for fear of being slowly run off the road.

Now, I respect the service this guy performed for my country, so I tried to be as nice as possible in letting him know I was in a hurry. I tailgated him a little, just so he could see me. No reaction. I got a little closer. He swerved a little more. I flashed my brights. Nothing. By this point, I realized that there was no chance for me to make my appointment, and frankly, I was getting a little pissed that Father Time couldn’t do me a solid and get the hell out of my way so I could get to Sook Me’s Palace of Rub. “Look in your goddamn mirror, you old bastard!” I wanted to yell into his hearing aid. Or, “Remember the Alamo!” Whatever would get his wrinkly ass out of my horny way. So, I honked. I laid on that horn like it was a Hooter’s girl choking on a hot wing, and when he still didn’t respond, I beeped it like Betty Boop. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he reacted—by flipping me the bird.

Shaking with barely contained rage, I hurled my car around him, bumping onto the sidewalk in the process, and when I got in front of him, I slammed on my brakes, forcing him to stop. Then I got out of my car, stormed to his window, and cursed at that poor, incontinent veteran like he was a puppy who piddled on my rug. My rant included such choices phrases as “get an f-ing bus pass,” “put your old ass in a home with locks on the doors,” and “Native American tribes leave people half your age in the woods to die.” Without allowing him to respond, I stormed back to my car and peeled off to go home and peel one off.

By about dinner time, I was feeling pretty guilty, and while I knew there was no way I could find the old guy and apologize, I decided I needed to get control of my anger. While I was beating myself up penitently, I went to the store to get some fixins for dinner. I parked my car, walked into the store, and got stuck behind a gaggle of 70-somethings in their bowling team uniforms. After 10 minutes of patiently trying to move around them only to find myself trapped again in the next aisle, I snapped and killed 3 of them. They didn’t deserve it, but I just get so mad sometimes because I’m white, and white people hate old people.