Highway Bacon
As a foreigner to San Francisco and the Bay Areas’ many highways and byways I fell victim to an incident while driving east bound on the interstate 80.
I borrowed a car and while blasting out towards the High Sierras I got spooked. On the radio were continued reports on the potential for rioting in the east Bay city of Oakland as a jurys deliberation and verdict on the fate of a white cop who shot an unarmed black man in the back was soon to be handed down. I vividly recall the harrowing images of the post Rodney King verdict and the deeply disturbing rioting that turned the Watts District into a lawless and lethal war zone in LA.
I took to the overtaking lane but my buddies Volvo wasn’t equal to the task and so while I was gradually getting past the traffic this super-pimped high performance sports Mercedes roared up behind me and sat inches from my Swedish tail. “Man, what a jerk” I thought of the driver in that white stallion of German auto-engineering excellence now hoofing at my tailpipe. I found an opening in the traffic and my gelding limped out of the way and while the merc drew past I patronizingly waved him by loudly and indignantly saying “yeah, yeah … off you go”!
But “off you go” he didn’t.
He drew right up next to me and menacingly lingered by my side at 70 miles an hour. It is amazing how acutely ones peripheral vision is enhanced during moments of self elicited road rage. Without directly looking across I broke into a sweat while the opaque tinted window slowly descended and I could feel his stare and catch the rapid movement of arms at my foolish interstate reckoning. I dared not cast a glance and decreased my speed, looking straight ahead. “Shit!” I uttered to myself.
But he pulled forward, then swung in front of me, slowing me down even more. “This is bad” and I could feel a coldness sweep through my bones, then my face. The four lanes of the interstate 80 don’t take kindly to sub 60 mph road-rage antics and all this while I was furiously constructing the occupants evil intentions, sordid occupation and yes, ethnicity. Had the verdict been delivered and riots now in motion? Was this high rolling crack pimp also high on rocks and ready to roll? He swung across to the other lane so that he could get right by my side as I was penned in by the converging traffic … his other window now rolled down and an arm came out with a hand making the shape of a gun pointing at me.
He slowed down and lingered to my direct right.
I finally turned to look at him with a profound mixture of dread and surrender to my imminent inclusion into the highway homicide statistics roll. He started yelling at me while waving and pointing his finger … blanched with fear it took some time before I could read his lips or comprehend to where he was actually pointing his ‘gun-hand’ … ” your tire, your tire, you’ve got a flat tire”! he was remonstrating.
The incident wasn’t road rage, it was one of preconceptions, bias, ignorance and fear. I had three more hours of highway driving with trucks and commuters roaring at 70 plus miles an hour ’round my ears. That guy possibly saved my life and all the while I figured he was trying to end it.
To the anonymous guy in the pimped up unicorn bone-white sports Mercedes S550 I cannot thank you enough for saving my boney bacon while also serving my own misguided preconceptions up to me on a platter. Done … done!
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