Tango of the Road Rage Drivers began on Yahoo! Voices with my first Road Rager on Long Island in 2004. We were turning on Veterans Highway, heading for the Northern Parkway when this driver, whoever they are, decided to let loose and go Road Rage. They didn’t know me, but they did everything to try and kill me. And the stories from 2004 to 2011 now became a self-published book on LuLu.com, but that first experience was not my first. And it unfortunately may not be my last.
It was 1997. I had just broken my arm working in a blue-chip cookie sort of place located in the mall near my home. It was closing time. I had gone into the walk-in refrigerator to grab a carton of Snapple when the girl that I worked with decided to wash the floor. I stepped out, slipped, and fell. Amazingly enough, the Snapple bottles didn’t break, but my arm did. I had no idea when I struggled to stand, but the look of horror on her face was more than enough for confirmation.
It was during the summer. My boyfriend at the time, Dave, drove me around and took care of me. He even took me to the emergency room for my arm, but what he didn’t realize was that our relationship was coming to an end. I would soon be leaving for Long Island and never coming back except for short visits at home, but before that would happen, I would accompany him on errands. And on one of those trips, I encountered my very first Road Rager.
I hate Newburgh. To this day, I fear going there. I had to go to the Social Security Office down by the water, and my brothers joked, “Have fun crossing bullets over Broadway.” Even during the day, that place makes me nervous, and back in 1997, it was no better than today. And it was during the day when that Road Rager came flying down the road, heading my way.
Dave and I had just entered Newburgh. We were on one of the major roadways. He was looking for something, something for home, maybe a vacuum. He was minding his own business like so many drivers do when these two women tried to cut him off, and they kept trying. And he didn’t let them, and they danced, swayed back and forth. This went on until we reached a red traffic light.
An angry brunette snapped out of the passenger-side. The next thing that I knew, she was trying to open my door. She slammed her fist against my window, trying to break the glass, and she did it again. And as she raised her hand one more time, Dave jumped out of the car and confronted her.
I could hear the screaming behind his car. I nursed my broken arm, pulling on my lip, and unsure of what to do. There were no cell phones back then. I lowered the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of the other woman, who remained behind the wheel, gripping it tight. I started to move the mirror down further, hoping to catch their license plate, but then her eyes met mine. And they were just as dark, just as angry as the other woman, who shoved Dave, and Dave shoved her.
I don’t know what made them leave. I didn’t turn around. I listened to the screams, the swears, and the hatred, the Road Rage. Then, that woman jumped into the car, and the car sped away, flying like a bat out of hell down the road. And Dave got back inside, shaking to his core.
We found a place to stop at, and he called the police. The cop questioned me too, but neither one of us had any answers. We gave a general description of the car and the two women, and the cop said that there was nothing to go on. If only I had gotten that license plate, but I was afraid to get out of the car. I was afraid to look in the mirror. I was afraid, never realizing that this would be my first encounter of Road Rage.
What do you do in a situation like that? There was no rhyme or reason. They wanted to cut us off, and Dave didn’t let them. There were other lanes. They had other options, but they chose violence. They chose to attack, and she went after me like a predator to a prey. She wanted blood, and she almost got it. But for what? What? To feel good about her meaningless, pathetic life? To be a hero when she was surely the villain? All she succeeded in doing was giving me the memory to write this story, and here it is, written for you to read.
