The Great Ganesha

Ok. Breathe. I’m still alive. If you’d asked me that an hour ago, I’d have probably had my doubts.

I’m driving back from doing some errands this morning, and I am cut off by this kid in a tiny, shiny Toyota convertible. He pops out of his parking spot without even looking for who’s coming or going. Me, being who I am, I promptly give him the finger long enough for him to see it in his rear view. On the off-chance that he doesn’t, I honk long and hard. He, being who he is, stops the car in the middle of the road, and just waits. He’s looking at me and cursing at me through his rear view mirror. I can see that clearly.

The cars are now piling up behind me. It’s been around thirty seconds and this is just in front of a pretty busy intersection in San Francisco. Finally, he gets out. He walks up to my car. He’s Asian, has pock marks all over his face and an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

“What the fuck you think you’re doing?”

I’m quiet.

“Get out of the car!”

Again, I’m quiet. I’m not going to be drawn in to his little game. He bangs the window with his fist. I’m convinced it’s going to break.

“You fucking insult me, you [insert Tagalog (not sure) expletive here]!”

I point to his car, point to the cars behind me and show him he’s blocking traffic with his little charade. It takes tremendous self-restraint for me to do this without blowing up at him. The guy is starting to get to me now.

“Ah, you pussy! You not man! You [insert other foreign language expletive here]!”

Then he walks off, gets back in his car and drives to the next signal, which happens to be red. Me, I’m turning right, so I have to drive by him. It’s taken a fair amount of self-control for me not to get involved in his little anger world. I mean, I get pretty easily pissed. Especially by bad drivers. So I try my hardest, but I can’t resist. While turning, I give him the finger.

That’s it.

Behind me, I hear screeching, and a few moments later, loud, protracted honking. He’s right behind me now, tailgating me. So I turn right. He turns and follows me. The signal is red. He gets out of his car and comes up to my car. Bangs the window. Hard.

“Open the window!”

No way, I’m not going to open that window, buddy, I think to myself. I’m still not talking. Not going to get drawn in. Although it might be a little late for that.

The signal turns green. He turns around to walk back to his car and kicks my tyre on the way. I give him the finger again.

I’m close to home, but I’m not going in there. Not a chance. Don’t want him to know where I live. So I turn right. He turns right. I drive half a mile. He drives half a mile. I turn left. He turns left. All right, so you’re following me. Let’s see how long it will take for you to cool off. The game continues for around fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. I’m driving all across town. Finally, I pull over. He pulls over behind me. I roll down my window, turn towards him and finally speak,

“What do you want, man?”

“You insult me, motherfucker! You pussy! Get out of the car!”

So I can get a better look at him, I take a U-turn so that our driver’s-side front windows are somewhat aligned. I’m across the road though, keeping a safe distance. He jumps out of the car, runs over to mine and takes a pop at me with his fist. I duck.

“Listen dude, what do you want? If you try anything like that again, I’m going to call the cops.”

“Call them, motherfucker! You insult me!”

Clearly someone has some anger issues. He takes another shot at me. Ok, that’s it. I’m too old for fist fights. I call the cops. He makes it easy for me. While I’m giving them his license plate and my name, etc. he’s cursing all throughout in the background. The 911 operator even asks me if that’s the person I’m complaining about. Once I hang up, I ask him again,

“What is it that you want, dude?”

“You insult me! Nobody insult me!”

Fine. Let’s get this thing over with.

“Ok, man,” I say, “I’m sorry. Ok?”

“Ok. Ok. But remember, next time you insult someone, they nail you, motherfucker! They nail you in the head!”

He makes a little gun with his hand as he’s saying this and points it to my head. Okaaay. The situation seems a little cooler now, so I offer him my hand to shake.

“Fuck you! You no my friend!”

Ok, man. You no my friend, either. And then I drive off. Then I remember about the cops coming. So I drive around the block and go back to the spot. He’s not there. And neither are the cops. I wait around a few more minutes, but they don’t show up. While driving home, I notice a cop car waiting at another street corner – 30th Ave. I said 38th Ave. I guess my Indian accent didn’t get through clear enough. The cops call me as I’m pulling into my garage. I tell them the situation is resolved. I’m not going back there. I need to unwind, I need some me time.

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