I had a green light at the corner of Tenth Avenue and went forward slow and cautious. A green truck behind me started honking, rude and impatient. It made me nervous so I sped up a little bit to clear the intersection. It was a risky move considering the lack of visibility but I made it to the other side of Tenth intact. The hailstones fell bigger and bigger, and were now the size of marbles. I slowed down again. I was certain one of the stones would rip clean through the roof and into my head.
I wanted to pull over but traffic was so bad there was no opening to get out of the lane. So I crept on to Ninth Avenue and stopped at a red light. The second it turned green the same guy behind me started honking again, only this time more frantic and repetitive. I started moving but it wasn’t fast enough for him and he would not let up on the horn. I stepped on the gas pedal a little more.
When I reached the other side of Ninth the hail had turned back into rain. But the intensity of the storm would not let up and the sky thundered and flashed lightning. My nerves were burned. I focused every ounce of my attention on not ramming into the car in front of me. I was doing a decent job of it but my pal behind me was relentless. He couldn’t change lanes or pass me because it was too congested, so he chose to torture me instead.
He was honking his horn in the same rhythmic pattern: three quick blasts and then a long droning honk. Over and over. I would have preferred a hailstone through the skull to the drilling he was giving me. It made me nauseous and my head throbbed in pain. I stepped on the accelerator and sped up a bit more than I should have, but it still wasn’t enough for him.
As I approached the Eighth Avenue intersection the light was green but the Don’t Walk sign was flashing red. Green was about to be yellow. My first impulse was to not risk it and stop at the corner, but the beast behind me pressed his cloven hoof on his horn and left it there. The light turned yellow. Then I heard another horn either behind him or to my side, and then another, and another, and so on, multiplying like loaves and fishes. It was unbearable. I was so rattled I pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The van reacted in a big chug forward but the light turned red and I got scared so I hit the brake as hard as I could. My Nehi flew off the seat, my head snapped back, and the evil green truck rear-ended me. The impact was louder than the thunder and it sent my head into the windshield with enough force to crack the glass.
I knew I had to be injured but nothing hurt at first. I picked the Nehi off the floor and then touched it to my head to check for blood. I was expecting lots but there was none. I got out of the van with the soda in my hand.
He was so close to me I could smell the decay in his teeth. A short, swarthy man with bushy eyebrows and a wiry mustache, he wore a blue mechanic’s shirt with the word Toma embroidered in red script over his breast pocket. I wasn’t sure if it was his name or his business. He spoke with Dracula’s accent and cursed me in a mix of English and his native tongue.
He spat and sputtered, swearing and screaming at me. I was afraid for him. His complexion turned red and his eyes bugged out of their sockets. Waiting for a punch in the face, I apologized. I told him I was sorry but he didn’t want to hear anything I had to say. I don’t think it’s possible for one person to express more hatred toward another without violence.
“Sorry’s not to fix my fucking truck, suckdicker! Suckdicker son of fucker whore!”
Traffic had stopped in both directions. All the car horns of the earth sounded their agreement with my new friend’s opinion of me. People got out of their cars or strolled over from the sidewalk with umbrellas to assess the damage and watch the fight. Toma got angrier, shook a fist in my face, and kicked my tires. He stomped and screamed like Rumpelstiltskin arguing with an umpire. I didn’t know what he wanted or what I was supposed to do. Some of the bystanders were shouting stuff too and I got even more confused.
I said I was sorry once more. Toma pushed me hard in the middle of my chest and I slipped on the slick street and almost fell down. I was pressed up against the side of the van and he was right in my face again.
“Sorry’s not to fix my truck, suckdicker!”
I pulled the five hundred bucks out of my pocket and handed it over; this pacified him. He looked down at the money in his hand and stopped cursing. I took a step sideways and stumbled over someone’s galoshes. My feet slid out from under me and my pants pocket got caught on the corner of the open door of the van. I landed on my ass and saw that one of my pant legs was flayed open exactly like Al’s a few minutes before. A woman in a Wonder Bread raincoat helped me up and asked if
