Rain was pouring down in sheets and the traffic had all jammed up, crumpled, jagged, and steaming in the tropical heat. As is my custom, when moving at 3 feet per minute and upon coming to an intersection wherein cars may poke out their snouts and cross through the great slow moving migration, I did indeed complete what had already been apparent, my relative lack of movement, and came to a stop. I had left a good twenty foot gap between myself and the car in front so as to not block the intersection. It was nothing new. It was courteous. It was lawful. It would have been unselfish except for the fact that those twenty feet meant nothing to me… a gap covered in five seconds once the migration should begin anew with a start and a lurch.
We were all there to pick up our beloved children from Catholic School. Mostly we are members of the same community and share a common devotion to braving this cursed traffic jam every day in order that we may fetch our darling children.
So it was therefore surprising that the blowing horns would have begun to fall upon me. Move up! Move up came the frantic wails. Can’t you see those twenty feet are essential to us? Can’t you see that you must move or we shall risk being crushed by the great disaster that comes from behind. And frantically they redoubled their efforts, blowing and snorting.
I held firm, resolute in my righteousness and irritation at the small-mindedness.
Then, without warning a small red Toyota Echo whipped from behind me and lodged himself diagonally into the space, the gap in the intersection directly in front of me. Now even the cross traffic was blocked. But the final straw? Someone in a Mercedes followed suit.
I had had enough. I blocked her. In our little game of chicken (if you could call it that), I could not have been defeated. My car? A twelve year old Chevy Lumina against the beautiful new Mercedes.
Just try it, bitch, I mentally cursed.
So I won. I looked her dead in the eye, shook my head, and mouthed. "Usted es una mal criada." Akin to saying, "The lady is a miscreant."
I love how Spanish allows one to insult with the air of an English butler. It’s fun. You should try it sometime. "I’m very sorry, sir, but the gentlemen is an ass."
So the madam was now stuck in the oncoming lane of traffic, blocked by myself and the stupid little pendejo, Toyota Echo. She attempted to back up and resume her station at my rear, but lo and behold, her traffic jam mate had closed her off from behind. She had no where to go. Oh how I wished there had been a lion or tiger to cull her ass from the herd.
The rain poured harder and I made a decision.
I flung open my door and sloshed my way to her driver’s side window. I leaned on her car and rapped on the window. She cracked it open a smidge.
"The lady is a miscreant. In the whole of my life I have never viewed such a manner. Does the madam believe that no one here to pick up their beloved children does not have hurry. Does the madam have more hurry than myself? Or them (pointing) or them? Does the madam not have the smallest portion of shame? I frankly would be ashamed of myself, a person of the madam’s age (55-60) and maturity to take it upon themselves to comport themselves in such a selfish and uncharitable manner."
Through, she kept attempting to interrupt with indignation, "Perdoname – perdoname – " make no mistake, ’twas not the tone of contrition. No it was the "Look whippersnapper, I don’t know who you think you are – " the cold icy tone of "Excuse me?"
Indeed.
I had finished what I wished to communicate, so I got back into my car shaking my head and continued along… three feet at a time. Inch inch inch.