A Trafficker of Goodwill Suddenly Driven Into a Rage

We all know life is fragile, but perhaps never more so than when a guy on a motorcycle is screaming at you through your driver-side window while you’re motoring down the street.

This is the auto equivalent of a near-miss midair collision. One second, everything is fine; the next, you’re staring death in the face. Even if you survive, it’s not something you shake off quickly.

It was just last Sunday, in the late afternoon. I was cruising down Beach Boulevard toward the ocean, mere minutes from home. I’d spent the afternoon watching the Long Beach Riptide baseball team, the kind of experience that mellows you and makes you forget that you can always run into danger.

But run into it I did. Almost literally.

I’m not a speeder, so I was probably moving along at close to 50, the posted limit for this stretch of Beach. I was in the middle lane when, from the right, a motorcyclist apparently pulled out of a parking lot onto the street. In hindsight, it became obvious to me that he wanted to get all the way over to the left-hand lane but that traffic was too heavy and fast-moving.

Temporarily thwarted, he made it as far as my lane, then apparently cut his speed while weighing his next move. That would have been perfectly OK had I not, as mentioned previously, been barreling down the street at 50 mph. Or, had he gradually made his way over in front of me. Instead, as nimble cyclists can do, he sort of materialized in front of me.

Believe me when I say I probably honk my horn no more than five times a year. You have to really do something stupid or arrogant to upset me.

But, considering that I had to brake forcefully to avoid knocking him and his passenger into the next world, I honked. I’ll concede it was not the polite “toot-toot, you’ve committed a driving gaffe” that any driver is more than happy to receive from a fellow driver. No, it was more like aggravated, extended horn-honking, the kind that says: “You blithering idiot, I deem you unworthy to operate a moving vehicle.”

I’m sure he took the honking as a challenge to his manhood, when it really was a spontaneous reaction to the fact he almost turned me into a killer. Honest, I wasn’t really mad at him, just at the peril he created.

That distinction was lost on him. His immediate reaction was to flash me the international gesture of goodwill and prosperity--the upright middle finger. OK, fine. I knew he didn’t appreciate being honked at, so I shrugged it off as him defending his honor.

A few more seconds down the road, I passed him and he again saluted me. To prove, however, that he had mastered more than nonverbal skills, he also shouted the shopworn two-word command not heard from gentlemen.

I’m a cupcake, but I have my limits. How dare this wretch scream at me when he was the goof who almost got two people killed?

So, in the language he seemed to understand most, I stuck my left arm out the window and, with all the pomp and ceremony I could muster, gave him a resounding “And here’s one for you too!” with my middle finger.

In my book, that made us even and I sped away. Instead, he moved up quickly on my left side. Now warming to the challenge, I slowed down to accept the escalating engagement.

He pulled up alongside, no more than two or three feet away, and with a fury I’ve seldom seen on any human being’s face, shouted: “@#$#% you! @#$% you!”

I still was nowhere near his level of anger, but I at least wanted to get in my two cents’ worth. “I was only trying to keep from killing you!” I shouted.

“@#$% you!” he repeated. “Pull over! Pull over!”

Yeah, right, dude. Why don’t we pull over and each state our positions, then give the other person two minutes to respond, then each have a one-minute rebuttal.

I did not pull over, and maybe he didn’t want to, either, because I continued onward and he finally made the left turn that was so critical to him in the first place.

It was an unnerving episode. Not because I was fearful, but because who knows what would have happened had we pulled to the side of the road. Was he armed? Would he have used a weapon?

No way to tell, but he was livid beyond all normal reason, and the thought occurred to me that had the worst scenario unfolded and he had shot, stabbed or pummeled me, he would have ended up in court over a foolish traffic incident.

Had he killed me, for example, he would have thrown his life away for nothing. It’s easy to picture him in court, dressed in a suit and tie with a nice haircut, telling the court how sorry he was. He probably would have meant it. He might have wondered how things ever got so out of hand and implored the court to believe that he was basically a good guy.

Which he very well may be.

My point isn’t to condemn this stranger. It’s merely to point out how, in a flash, a foolish moment can lead to the brink of disaster. He was mad enough to inflict some kind of harm on me, had I given him the chance.

Five minutes later, he’d probably forgotten the whole thing.

As for me, I’m thinking seriously of reducing my horn-honking to absolute zero.

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Readers may reach Parsons by writing to him at the Times Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or calling (714) 966-7821.