This sort of highway hallelujah is a tradition among American men. : Cursing The Ground Drive On

I was rolling along Ventura Boulevard the other day when a man driving a red car cut in front of me. Or perhaps I cut in front of him. It was never quite clear, I suppose, who did what to whom, but I was convinced it was his fault. I honked, cursed and shook my fist.

He, on the other hand, was convinced it was my fault, so naturally he honked, cursed and shook his fist.

It did not end there. Our destinations continued along the boulevard and on occasion we found ourselves side by side, he in his evil red car and I in my white purity.

At a stop light on DeSoto, I rolled down the window and shouted: “You ought to damned well learn how to drive!”

He rolled down his window and yelled: “You can go straight to hell!”

“Say that again, mister!” I roared, sitting as high up in the seat as I could.

“Go straight to hell!” he said again, and as the light changed he zoomed off in a cloud of arrogance.

It was bad enough that the fool had twice told me where I could go, but to have said that and then beat me at the signal was almost too much.

I caught up with him and we yelled some more and gestured in a raised-finger manner which feminists in Los Angeles are known to call the Gloria Steinem Salute.

The game seemed over by then because I had to make a left turn, but then he made the same left turn, honking his horn madly as he shot by me.

In about a block, however, his lane of traffic came to a stop, so I shot by him in Sweet Purity, honking and laughing with the joy of a sadist chain-whipping his sister.

This sort of highway hallelujah is a tradition among American men. It is, in fact, therapeutic for those of us in L. A. who spend so much time in our cars. Shouting, cursing and gesturing beats hell out of drowning in the vacuous babble of disc jockeys.

Usually, it goes no further than a lot of transitory male rage. I am not sure how women will work it out over the years, since they are creatures with genetically muted concepts of logic, and might end up killing one another at the curb side.

Men can handle a little hostility without coming apart, but women cannot. It has to do with the menstrual cycle.

Anyhow, the guy in the red car continued on my path for another mile or so. This surprised me, for these kinds of rolling confrontations are usually over after a block or so.

We were mutually committed by then to continue in our shows of bravado, the way a baboon jumps up and down and screams until what he perceives as a predator leaves the territory.

Fortunately, however, I saw the street I was looking for and made a right turn. I could relax a little. But then I glanced in my rear view mirror and there he was again, turning right.

At this point, on the rare occasion when it has occurred, I begin to get a little worried. I sit up even higher in the seat, clamp my teeth together and scowl, all of which are intended to convince an enemy he might be dealing with a homicidal maniac.

I noticed as I passed him, however, that he too was sitting up higher in his seat, his teeth were clamped together and he was also scowling. He was giving the homicidal-maniac stance right back to me.

“You dog brain!” I said more or less to myself, and I could see him saying “Jerk!” more or less to himself.

At last I was at the market my wife had sent me to. I gave a last angry wave and turned into the driveway and parked. That’s when I noticed the red car also pulling into the driveway.

Damned if he didn’t park about three cars away.

I said to myself this is it, the guy really is a drooling killer looking for fresh meat. I hunched slightly and turned toward him, ready for anything.

As he emerged from his car, he saw me and hunched slightly, facing me.

We must have sensed simultaneously, however, that there was no real danger here. We were both, to begin with, not very big, so even if there had been a vicious bare-handed attack by either man, little damage would have occurred.

Our very demeanor once outside the steel and horsepower of our individual cars changed dramatically.

What had happened, I decided, was a one in a million occurrence. Two strangers whose egos had clashed in a chance encounter had, by mad caprice, ended up at precisely the same destination.

He must have realized at about the same time what had happened, unhunching even as I unhunched and trying to think of what to do next. Someone had to do something, so I said: “Nice car.”

He said: “You got good pickup there.”

I said: “You’ve got rocket power.”

He said: “I bet you get great mileage.”

We nodded appreciatively and then I said: “Well, have a nice day.”

He said: “Hey, yeah, you too.”

And then we went into the market and he held the door for me while I entered and I let him take the first shopping cart.

We were very sweet and polite out of our cars. That’s the way men are.

Thank you very much.