It is 8:07 in the morning and I am already exhausted. My blood pressure is so high it's making me dizzy, my stomach is in a knot and I'm having chest pains.
People, I don't ask for much. Really, I am very happy with my lot in life (except for the boring bit) and I don't expect much from folks - mainly because they'll just disappoint me. The exception to this otherwise steadfast rule being, of course, courteousness.
I admit it. Y'all have spoiled me. With your non-confrontational, "Well, let me just see what I can do about that" approach to problem solving. And your "Well, bless your heart" replacement for the urban response of "Tough shit, bitch."
I know what you really mean. I know that "Bless your heart" means 1.) You had it coming and should be happy you didn't get worse, 2.) I don't care, but I'm pretending to care, now go away, or 3.) Tough shit, bitch.
I LOVE this about you. I trewly, trewly do.
However, there are times and places to get tough.
One of those places is in traffic.
So I'm on my way in this morning, behind a tractor trailer, and I'm driving in the RIGHT hand lane as I should be considering I was not passing anyone, when another truck passes me on the left. And then slows down. And then basically PARKS in the left hand lane, parallel with the truck in my lane, doing almost TEN miles an hour under the speed limit. For one mile, then two miles... SIX miles and an eternity later there is about 15 miles of commuter traffic backed up behind us with no relief in sight.
I look over at the car to my left, the guy stuck behind the "Swift Transport" truck - Oooooh the irony was just too much to bear at 7:30 in the morning - and he shrugs.
A few more miles go by and I notice the teeny tiny "How's My Driving?" sticker on the back of the truck right above his trailer ID number. But I can't read the filthy, tiny print. Damn. So I hold up my phone and make eye contact with the guy next to me again and point to the number on the truck. And he just looks at me. Looks at me with my phone and looks directly at the number on the truck - which surely he can see since his eyes are about 20 years younger than mine - and just turns away.
He's not going to call. He knows what I'm talking about, but he's not going to do it. Why? WHY won't you call? Are you a Cancer? Were you born in the Year of the Sheep? Are you a Youngest Child who just assumes that everyone will take care of everything for you?
Or are you too polite? Aaaaah. That's it. If this boy made a fuss, the hand of his sweet Momma (not one ounce of sarcasm here, I swear it) would reach out from 30 miles away and smack him squarly in the back of his Momma-lovin' head.
I get it. This situation calls for (dunn-dunn-DUNN) A Yankee.
So I squeeeezed up as close as I could get catty-corner to the offending truck and was by-God able to read that toll-free number. And I called it. And I said, "I am a commuter and this is where I am, and this numbered truck is parked in the left hand lane and has traffic backed up for 15 miles, surely making us all late for work. Would you, could you, please radio him and ask him to PLEASE get the HELL out of everyone's way?"
And she laughed and put me on hold. And while I was holding a shaft of light pierced the cloudy sky and fell upon that truck and with a mighty surge of power it sped up and moved over and freed all the little sheep cars that had been trapped behind it. And nobody was late for work. And the choir sang "Amen."
Okay, so that's the Baptist version of what happened. It really did work like that except for the shaft of light bit. I'll tell you something, though, it felt good to do something for my fellow commuters (assuming I actually had anything to do with it). On the whole they're very considerate - lovely, polite Southern drivers that they all are. God love 'em.