2002-08-14 - 1:22 p.m.
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Edgy pt. 1
Ok I hope this looks like I want it to when I post this. This is the first part of my short story called "edgy". That's the name right now but I'm sure since I hate it I'll figure out a new one. I also wrote this at 3 AM so if you don't like it, it's probably me not you.
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TO:
I don�t like to be late when I drive to get to things.
When I say �drive�, I�m sure I don�t mean it in the same sense you do. Or maybe I do and you don�t know it.
Any asshole can operate a car. Hell, people without all the essential limbs to operate a car can do it with technology helping nowadays.
6:45 PM. Getting late; I�m really going to have to hurry.
So as I was saying. Any asshole can operate a car.
Even this asshole ahead of me at the light.
I honk my horn and blow caution at him that, yes indeed, I intend to blow right by him the first chance I get and, yes indeed, I intend to extend my warmest felt emotions with him�with my middle finger.
People don�t take too kindly to the reminder they�re idiots.
Stop and go traffic. Stop and go. Stop and go. Stop and GOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. There�s a �go� in that description, buddy. There�s a green light for that too. And both are being held up by your car. Your fucking car is in the way to where I have to�
6:46 PM. I can�t believe I�m getting any later.
So anyway, any asshole can drive a car.
It takes either a man with big balls or an idiot to ride like I do. Good thing I wear big pants.
See, I have this problem with cars. As in I can�t stand being behind them.
Oh no, I love cars. Don�t get me wrong, I love cars. I love being in cars, I love riding in cars, I love seeing cars driving, I love cars. I love cars. But people go and cause those cars to act like fools: turning when they shouldn�t, speeding and breaking when they should have been paying attention, crashing into each other and causing quite the mess.
I love cars. I hate drivers.
I�m not much of a driver. And even though I speed everywhere I go, I�m not much of a racer. I guess I�m some kind of new classification that needs a name. A bandit or a samurai. Those words probably don�t work. I don�t really know what each of them means.
Another red light. The bane of my existence when I�m in a rush. Sitting there, that bright red glare shining out at the head of that traffic light like a tongue in a razz. Mocking me because I can�t move. Because I can�t go. Because�
6:48 PM. I�m not even on the parkway yet. Goddamn it.
So I have this thing when I drive on the parkway or anywhere where I can get away with it. I find someone who seems to not want me to get where I�m going and I challenge them to do so. I challenge them to do what they want to obviously do: get in my way. I have somewhere to be and they know it and they hold me back, keeping me from being on time at all. This is not in my head, this is not made up. This is real. What do they call it? Road rage? That feeling when you�re driving like the people around you are causing stress. I cause that stress. They want to see me fail and�
GODDAMNIT MOVE YOUR ASS! This damn conversion van has been in front of me for blocks and I can�t get around with all these curves.
All I want to do is get to where I�m going. Good times, good people, good fun. I can�t elaborate enough about the good things that await me, but I�
WHY WON�T YOU LET ME GET AROUND YOU!?!?!?! IS THIS SOME KIND OF GAME TO YOU?
I know that as soon as I get to the parkway, I can get around him. I�ll blow right past him. Even in rush hour traffic, I can beat him. His van will not beat my car, not this car. No way.
The parkway will decide everything. He�s in front of me now but when we get to the parkway, he�ll go on his way. Unless he wants to play.
No one really plays back, although they do seem to try and challenge me when I play with them. The rules are simple. They are your enemy. Destroy your enemy. The only way you can destroy them is getting in front of them and staying there. Staying in front is harder than it seems but once I get there, once I taste the lead, it�s a nice easy ride. No one plays the game but me so they won�t come after me. They won�t destroy me.
Of course, parkways hold two traps: exits and cops. Exits are easy and are in fact the end of the game. If they get off, they forfeit or win (depending on if they are in front) or if you get off, you forfeit or win (depending�
GODDAMNIT! CAN�T YOU SEE THE SIGN THAT SAYS RIGHT LANE MUST TURN RIGHT!?!? NO WONDER YOU ARE WONDERING WHAT TO DO�YOU�RE GOING STRAIGHT AND�
Forget it. They�re going to be an accident one day. Not with me. Never with me.
Cops are the great mischief of the game. They can make or break you. Too many people say that phrase, so it holds no meaning anymore. If anyone gets caught, you or them, its all over. If you�re pulled over, it�s like hitting the wall in a Nascar race. You�re done. But this isn�t a race.
The drivers don�t understand. They think they are going to get where they are going anyway. Why rush it? Why get there faster by speeding up? What don�t they understand about their vehicle, in that it CAN go faster? They wouldn�t make these cars to go that fast if they didn�t mean it.
God. 6:52 PM. I have 8 minutes to get there. It�s got to be 15 miles or more�
GET OUT OF MY WAY YOU FUCKING VAN OF TORTURE! Why does that driver use that van that way? Why are they both in my way?
I find that it works best to speed as much as possible until you get to an area that looks like cops couldn�t resist sitting there and zapping you with that gun they got. That gun. Never shot me. Never hit me. Never caught me. Well, that one time. But that doesn�t count. No ticket, doesn�t count. I lost that day though.
The parkway. You�re not moving. You�re still there, in front, two red eyes staring at me. Two red eyes eyeing me over. Two red�
The turn! I almost missed it staring into those brake lights. This van will not be the end of me.
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The ramp is ratty and full of potholes. The van ahead jumps at the shock of every slap to the face that the road gives it, but my car just seems to vault over them. I spring forward, but the van remains ahead. The driver brings the van to the far left. The fast lane, the ending of many victories. For a win. The driver starts out strong, but I won�t give up easily. Traffic is heavy and to get behind the van (where I want to be right now) I have to zig zag between the far right lane over to the left. Maybe I can cut the driver off and there will be no place to go. It would be all over. But it�s tricky to get between cars and get over. Speeds change. Pockets close, chances are over in an instant and you�d end up hitting someone, possibly causing a pile up. I�ve never been in an accident. I pull back, brake up a bit and then I swing around to the back of the van, but about 4 cars length behind. This is dangerous, as someone can easily hop into that nice cradle we made between us, the inviting pocket of air in the sea of traffic. This is undesirable. 85 mph later and I�m bumper to bumper with the van, which is going strong. Keeping up, going strong, still maintaining the lead. We blow past the first exit, the green sign whizzing past me on the opposite side of the 3-lane parkway. 2 miles till the next one. 20 exits till the end for me, how many for the driver? I try a risky maneuver by getting into the lane next to me, another car 3 lengths up. If I can speed up and get around, I can take this van. I flip the lever, the green blinking arrow tells me I�m about to hop over a little. It tells the red eyes to blink at everyone, winking, almost like I was doing something tricky and didn�t want anyone to know ahead of me. Especially not the van� Damn! I almost forgot the light in the front. That yellow bastard, waving in screaming, then silence. Screaming, then silence. Screaming, I pull the steering wheel slightly and the entire car jolts over, where I hit it back the other way with another jerk of the wheel. I�m in the middle, equal opportunity on either side. But the fast on the left, the slow on the right, the middle stays stagnate. No chance to hop either way without luck. The slow lane is too slow for your tastes in the middle, but you have to have a clearing to get into the fast lane or else you�re behind someone for miles. Like the driver in the van. I slam my foot on the pedal�s face and the engine yells in agony, violently roaring in sympathy for the poor treatment to its little plastic friend under my foot. In rage, the car rushes forward, engine remaining angry and slowly calming down but still speeding. I come within 2 inches of the car ahead of me within seconds, only to look over and see another car. No hole, no chance to get in front. The fast lane car does what a fast lane car does (which is goes fast) and it speeds ahead of me. The driver in the van doesn�t even look at me as the van slips right past me. I�ve been beaten out for a few exits it seems. As the 6th or 7th exit flies past, I see traffic moving to my benefit. The ever popular slow lane buzz by. The slow lane is emptying out of cars and when there is nothing blocking me, I can rush into that inviting, warm hallway of championship. That will be my ticket to winning. I look ahead and behind me, in the mirror. I see each car slowly trickle its way into my mirror�s eyes and it smiles back on me with fortune as I see my chance. I look down, for cops, for the van� The van has passed the car in front of me. The car has cut into the slow lane. I try to get over, but it doesn�t help. The car in front of me is going just fast enough not to allow a hole to open up. I grate my teeth and scream obscenities at the driver. But not the car. Never the car. I see my chance. I slip up the left, in the fast lane. My car has been beaten by the car that now shoots ahead of the van and if I whip around this car in front of me, I can shoot by it and hop into the spot ahead of that car. This would put me in a side by side stance with the van. I don't hesitate as I slowly try to slink and slide over, but I hear the livid honk of a car behind me, trying to get around me because I have to go as fast as what�s ahead of me and that�s too slow for them. I jolt back and let them pass, because I don�t want to hit them and I take another shot at it. Another blinker in front, this time a warning. Screaming then smiling, screaming then smiling. The scream is the war cry, the smile is the knowledge that I�ll win. I always win, except that one time. I�ll win. The fast lane caresses my mind like a warm blanket and lays flat for me to zoom up to the front. I punch it again, the engine bursts with agony. The car shakes a little more than usual as the engine works up a fury in its steel cage, causing the car to streak like a comet past the offending car. I taste victory coming. But the taste is washed from my palette quickly when I see the van slink back into the middle, blocking my advance. I now chew on contempt for this deed, this wicked deed, this hateful deed. I�ve been mocked and taken down and now it�s time I got up and jeered back. I stick to the comfort of the fast lane because it guarantees victory over the speed of the middle. I rush in the current of traffic, a couple more exits whiz past, I have a dozen or so left. Wait, less than a dozen. It doesn�t matter; there is time. Slowly, our cars slowly slip up to each other; mirror reaching for mirror, driver neck and neck with each other. Our bumpers are probably trembling at the force we fly down these roads, striving to be in front. I glance quickly over to my right, to see how much room I have to take over. 5 car lengths, car in my lane. 8 in his. I can cut in front of the van, cut back in front of the car up ahead and ensure victory. I weigh this decision, watching how the holes and gaps speak out to me. They speak highly of this move, yawning wide and staying open liked they were shocked I haven�t entered them yet. This casual meeting of the minds ends as I zoom ahead of the van and cut over, right in front. I mock the van in the mirror above me, on the sides, laughing as I� The car ahead of me is slowing down. I jut my feet into the brakes to keep the car from hopping upside the back bumper of the car ahead of me. I see the van evade me into the fast lane, where it zooms past me in all my fury at celebrating too early. I curse again at myself, but not at the van. It�s not the van�s fault. This game is ending soon, either because of me or the other driver, but I know I have at least 7 exits left. Time for last minute tactics. The slow lane has opened up again so I swerve across from the middle to the slow, but I go fast as a spark down the parkway. I�m threatening myself with cops now, because this is where they like to pop up �unintentionally�, but surprisingly at just the right time to prevent you from further breaking the law. I�m a little nervous now and really stressed but eager not to lose. I pass the car in the middle and without looking, come 3 inches within its bumper as I tear my car back to the middle, the engine rioting in the hood. I�ve passed the van again and now I�m going to ensure that I don�t lose. After weaving in and out of traffic, I don�t even notice any car that looks anything like the van anymore. I have tasted victory today and it tastes sweet. It was a long battle but I won. I don�t brake the remaining 4 exits.
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I get off the parkway at 7:01PM.
It�s exactly 4 minutes to the house. I�m not totally late. THESE LIGHTS NEVER CHANGE!!! DO I HAVE TO RUN OVER THE SENSOR AGAIN OR GET OUT AND HIT THE BUTTON ON THE YELLOW� I feel happy as I do a victory stroll down the backstreets of my friend�s town. I can feel the warmth of victory holding my body upright.
I feel strong.
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Part two tomorrow.
BMC
What did you just say? - What's he gonna say next?
