anger is good
by Dell Franklin
It’s 6:30 in the morning and I’m headed 250 miles south to San Pedro to see my ailing mother of 87. Because it is winter and my fellow cabbies are sick, I hacked 8 straight wee hour shifts of 10 to 12 hours and got very little sleep. My eyes burn. Occasionally I unleash a mountainous yawn and drool on my self. I’ve got the window open to keep me awake and a big cup of coffee in the slot of my ’83 Toyota Tercel and my dog is in back, not happy after an abbreviated walk in the dark instead of the usual full-scale workout of ball chasing.
I’ve only got 2 days off. I’ve got to get back.
I am starting to pass a couple ponderous swaying semis on the two lane 101 freeway in Santa Maria when a Mercedes rushes up on me, headlights blinking on and off. It can’t be more than a foot off my tail and glancing in my rearview I see the driver is exasperated with my cruising in front of him at 62 mph. Usually I’ll rush to pass semi’s and get out of the way, but this time I slow to 60 and keep abreast of the roaring trucks as he continues to blink his lights off and on and hugs my tail.
There is nobody in front of me. Behind the Mercedes a line of cars is forming. Most of these frenzied drivers are commuting to jobs in Santa Barbara from bedroom communities sprouting up like toadstools in former truck stops like Nipomo, Arroyo Grande and Orcutt—cookie cutters.
The Mercedes driver is multi-tasking—blabbing away on his phone, probably telling whomever what an asshole I am, while gesticulating his arms in a rage at me as I keep it at 60, trying to hold my tin can steady as the draft from the semi’s buffets me around. They keep it at 60, and so do I. After a few miles I become bored and a trifle guilty at holding back those behind the Mercedes and very slowly, very gradually pass the trucks and edge into their lane as the Mercedes zooms past me, the driver honking his horn and leaning across his seat to flash he a very agitated finger as I flash him the finger without looking at him.
******
The ride is uneventful through Santa Barbara and all the little communities south. When I reach Camarillo I turn off 101 onto Las Posas Road and head for highway 1, where traffic is thin and cruise along the scenic coast at 55 for about 10 miles until a bus-size RV pulls in front of me and almost stops me cold. I honk at him, because the driver had to see me coming and just pulled in front of me, forcing me to use my brakes and stick my head out the window and call him a “nogood motherfucking sonofabtich!”
My dog Marley, a black Lab mix, senses my instant anger and crawls up front to sit shotgun, keeping a wary eye on me. I have to slow down to 25 and remain on the tail of the RV. He gets it up to 35 and that’s about it. I honk my horn. I see his face in a large side mirror, a middle-aged asshole in straw hat and shades, driving a scenery-blanketing monstrosity, hauling a newly minted Honda sports car. I know I can pass this scumbag a few miles up, where the highway briefly splits into a passing lane, but it’s his arrogance and sense of entitlement that has me riled. Cars pile up behind me. I continue honking. I stick my head out the window and flash him the bone. He eyes me in the side mirror and slows down, the cocksucker!
“PULL OVER, YOU SONOFABITCH!” I bellow, heart racing like a lion’s in pursuit of prey. “YOU MOTHERFUCKER! YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”
What really incenses me are his Dallas-area Texas license plates.
He goes even slower, down to 25 mph and he’s sort of grinning at me in his side mirror, clearly relishing his position of total control. Marley has moved closer to me and has his paw on my shoulder, indicating he is unnerved by my behavior, but I can’t help myself, and I continue barking at the driver in the RV until the road splits and I pull up beside him and gaze up to where he sits grinning at me in a gloating manner as his wife, a real witch in straw hat, cusses me. While horns honk beside me, I flip them the bird and call them lowdown Texas trash before passing and pulling into his lane and speeding up, realizing I’ve been reduced to a psychopath and make it a point to try and calm down so as not to torment my poor dog who is gazing at me with genuine concern and compassion.
*******
As expected, in Malibu, traffic thickens. Marley senses my rising tension as I move deeper into the maw of beach congestion and crawls onto my lap, crushing my balls, partially impeding my view. He is not frantic, but anticipating the worst, so in consideration for my animal, I take deep breaths, making some kind of effort at Zen compliance. I turn on a jazz station, though it is full of static on the cheap old radio. The traffic moves along at about 25-30 mph, gradually slowing to stop-and-go, with a few waits at long lights.
I continue to take deep breaths as we lurch and stop, lurch and stop at no more than 15 mph, when I spot a man in a huge dust-encrusted Suburban with tools and equipment stacked ceiling high, and a ladder on top, who is trying to squeeze into my lane, the passing lane, trying to get in front of me in what can only be described as a blatantly bullying manner. He’s got a massive head like a pumpkin and a wild beard, and he’s one scary-looking dude, like some steroid-bursting NFL reject lineman on the warpath. He’s grimacing and eyeing me, no more than inches from ramming me! I fully intend to allow this L.A. lunatic to get his way. His mammoth vehicle about to squash my tiny rust-bucket, I nod and point at him in a signal to go ahead. But then he goes berserk. His face turns beet red and he cusses me savagely, eyes popping from his face, and wrenches his wheel toward me and I hit the brakes as he lurches in front of me just as traffic starts to flow again at about 20 mph. He’s one angry sonofabitch and he’s venting it all on me, his crazed eyes pinning me in his over-sized side mirror, waiting for my response.
I jut my head out the window to get a better look at him, and he gives me the finger.
He doesn’t just GIVE me the finger, he gives me a huge Italian sausage of a finger in a manner so animated, so authoritative, so urgent, so vengeful, so menacing, that I have no alternative but to return the finger, and I do, shaking it with conviction, jabbing it upwards, and now he’s got his giant pumpkin head out the window and twisted around, and he looks positively Cyclopean as he rages at me, shaking his jabbing finger wildly as he drives along, and my dog is scrunching around in a panic, mauling me with his adrenaline-juiced paws, licking my face to calm me down as I continue jabbing MY finger at the crazed motherfucker in front of me, calling him stupid, dumb, miserable desperate asshole, and finally, when we come to another dead stop, I am seized with sudden fear this behemoth Cyclops is going to jump out of his car and possibly maim or throttle the life out of me.
I have never witnessed another human this angry, ever!
I pull my head back in as traffic luckily starts right up in a crawl. The deranged madman continues barking at me, his finger out the window. As traffic mercifully picks up, he turns back around, watching the road, left hand still out the window, middle finger pointing at the sky. We get up to around 45 mph, a good flow. He’s still giving me the finger, his malevolent eyes on mine in his side mirror. I honk. He shakes the finger and raises it for emphasis and jabs it up in a manner indicating I can “shove it up my ass.” I honk again and he increases the vigor with which he is flipping me the bone.
I start laughing. Marley licks my face and crawls back to his shotgun position to gaze calmly out the window at the ocean and sniff the breeze. I have followed this lunatic in front of me for nearly 20 minutes, and he’s still giving me the finger. We halt at another light. He’s still got that finger out there, just holding it, not moving it around, showing me he’s not about to let me off the hook.
He’s still got his Cyclopean devil eye on me, too. So I jut my head out the window. He’s waiting, waiting…I give him the peace sign. He shakes his finger violently in response, wagging it back and forth, gritting his teeth. We slow down for another light. I cry out, “PEACE, MY BROTHER! WE’RE ALL IN THIS BULLSHIT TOGETHER! MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR!”
He goes apoplectic, unleashing a blood-curdling slew of profanity, calls me a faggot, cocksucker, you name it. He’s reinvigorated, face redder than before. Traffic flows. We’re nearly into Santa Monica. Where is this madman going? We’ve been carrying on, from what I can read on my speedometer, for almost 10 miles—a long drive in L.A.
I continue to flash him the peace sign, occasionally with an effeminate flourish, and keep my hand out the window full time. When he re-emphasizes the rage of his finger-giving, I answer with an even more intense peace sign. He sees me studying him in his side mirror, and mouths the words, “hippie faggot!” I mouth the words, “find love, my brother,” and wiggle my two peace-sign fingers.
“FUCK YOU!” he rages on, bouncing around in his seat, his finger still out there. Another mile or two, his finger is still out there. I pull into the second lane and try to edge up beside him, for a nice talk, possibly an understanding or a truce, but he swerves to cut me off, not about to let me go anywhere, and when the driver who was behind me tries to move up and pass him, he swerves back into the passing lane, cutting him off, too, and we jockey around this way for another mile, disrupting traffic, drawing honks and shouts, and he’s still giving me the finger and I’m still giving him the peace sign.
Finally, nearing the 10 freeway onramp, he gets into a left turn lane. I slow down to pass him. His massive bloated face turns toward me, but now he looks absolutely exhausted, haggard, the electric sparking insanity in his eyes gone blank, like fuses burnt out. I grin as I give him the peace sign, and, with an expression of disappointment and perhaps relief, with his right hand he flips me a rather lackluster finger as I go on my way, still giving him the peace sign out the window.
Later on, I’m so relaxed a momentary stall on the interchange of the 10 onto the 405 doesn’t bother me a bit. I’m almost giddy as I skim along next to the passing lane. Endorphins ripple through my body. I’m a noodle. Marley rests his muzzle on my lap and I stroke it gently as Coltrane plays on a tape. L.A. psychotics on cell phones are going ape shit behind me as I keep it at 60, while those veering off to swish past me issue filthy looks. I tool along near the airport, utterly at peace.
Anger is good.
It’s 6:30 in the morning and I’m headed 250 miles south to San Pedro to see my ailing mother of 87. Because it is winter and my fellow cabbies are sick, I hacked 8 straight wee hour shifts of 10 to 12 hours and got very little sleep. My eyes burn. Occasionally I unleash a mountainous yawn and drool on my self. I’ve got the window open to keep me awake and a big cup of coffee in the slot of my ’83 Toyota Tercel and my dog is in back, not happy after an abbreviated walk in the dark instead of the usual full-scale workout of ball chasing.
I’ve only got 2 days off. I’ve got to get back.
I am starting to pass a couple ponderous swaying semis on the two lane 101 freeway in Santa Maria when a Mercedes rushes up on me, headlights blinking on and off. It can’t be more than a foot off my tail and glancing in my rearview I see the driver is exasperated with my cruising in front of him at 62 mph. Usually I’ll rush to pass semi’s and get out of the way, but this time I slow to 60 and keep abreast of the roaring trucks as he continues to blink his lights off and on and hugs my tail.
There is nobody in front of me. Behind the Mercedes a line of cars is forming. Most of these frenzied drivers are commuting to jobs in Santa Barbara from bedroom communities sprouting up like toadstools in former truck stops like Nipomo, Arroyo Grande and Orcutt—cookie cutters.
The Mercedes driver is multi-tasking—blabbing away on his phone, probably telling whomever what an asshole I am, while gesticulating his arms in a rage at me as I keep it at 60, trying to hold my tin can steady as the draft from the semi’s buffets me around. They keep it at 60, and so do I. After a few miles I become bored and a trifle guilty at holding back those behind the Mercedes and very slowly, very gradually pass the trucks and edge into their lane as the Mercedes zooms past me, the driver honking his horn and leaning across his seat to flash he a very agitated finger as I flash him the finger without looking at him.
******
The ride is uneventful through Santa Barbara and all the little communities south. When I reach Camarillo I turn off 101 onto Las Posas Road and head for highway 1, where traffic is thin and cruise along the scenic coast at 55 for about 10 miles until a bus-size RV pulls in front of me and almost stops me cold. I honk at him, because the driver had to see me coming and just pulled in front of me, forcing me to use my brakes and stick my head out the window and call him a “nogood motherfucking sonofabtich!”
My dog Marley, a black Lab mix, senses my instant anger and crawls up front to sit shotgun, keeping a wary eye on me. I have to slow down to 25 and remain on the tail of the RV. He gets it up to 35 and that’s about it. I honk my horn. I see his face in a large side mirror, a middle-aged asshole in straw hat and shades, driving a scenery-blanketing monstrosity, hauling a newly minted Honda sports car. I know I can pass this scumbag a few miles up, where the highway briefly splits into a passing lane, but it’s his arrogance and sense of entitlement that has me riled. Cars pile up behind me. I continue honking. I stick my head out the window and flash him the bone. He eyes me in the side mirror and slows down, the cocksucker!
“PULL OVER, YOU SONOFABITCH!” I bellow, heart racing like a lion’s in pursuit of prey. “YOU MOTHERFUCKER! YOU PIECE OF SHIT!”
What really incenses me are his Dallas-area Texas license plates.
He goes even slower, down to 25 mph and he’s sort of grinning at me in his side mirror, clearly relishing his position of total control. Marley has moved closer to me and has his paw on my shoulder, indicating he is unnerved by my behavior, but I can’t help myself, and I continue barking at the driver in the RV until the road splits and I pull up beside him and gaze up to where he sits grinning at me in a gloating manner as his wife, a real witch in straw hat, cusses me. While horns honk beside me, I flip them the bird and call them lowdown Texas trash before passing and pulling into his lane and speeding up, realizing I’ve been reduced to a psychopath and make it a point to try and calm down so as not to torment my poor dog who is gazing at me with genuine concern and compassion.
*******
As expected, in Malibu, traffic thickens. Marley senses my rising tension as I move deeper into the maw of beach congestion and crawls onto my lap, crushing my balls, partially impeding my view. He is not frantic, but anticipating the worst, so in consideration for my animal, I take deep breaths, making some kind of effort at Zen compliance. I turn on a jazz station, though it is full of static on the cheap old radio. The traffic moves along at about 25-30 mph, gradually slowing to stop-and-go, with a few waits at long lights.
I continue to take deep breaths as we lurch and stop, lurch and stop at no more than 15 mph, when I spot a man in a huge dust-encrusted Suburban with tools and equipment stacked ceiling high, and a ladder on top, who is trying to squeeze into my lane, the passing lane, trying to get in front of me in what can only be described as a blatantly bullying manner. He’s got a massive head like a pumpkin and a wild beard, and he’s one scary-looking dude, like some steroid-bursting NFL reject lineman on the warpath. He’s grimacing and eyeing me, no more than inches from ramming me! I fully intend to allow this L.A. lunatic to get his way. His mammoth vehicle about to squash my tiny rust-bucket, I nod and point at him in a signal to go ahead. But then he goes berserk. His face turns beet red and he cusses me savagely, eyes popping from his face, and wrenches his wheel toward me and I hit the brakes as he lurches in front of me just as traffic starts to flow again at about 20 mph. He’s one angry sonofabitch and he’s venting it all on me, his crazed eyes pinning me in his over-sized side mirror, waiting for my response.
I jut my head out the window to get a better look at him, and he gives me the finger.
He doesn’t just GIVE me the finger, he gives me a huge Italian sausage of a finger in a manner so animated, so authoritative, so urgent, so vengeful, so menacing, that I have no alternative but to return the finger, and I do, shaking it with conviction, jabbing it upwards, and now he’s got his giant pumpkin head out the window and twisted around, and he looks positively Cyclopean as he rages at me, shaking his jabbing finger wildly as he drives along, and my dog is scrunching around in a panic, mauling me with his adrenaline-juiced paws, licking my face to calm me down as I continue jabbing MY finger at the crazed motherfucker in front of me, calling him stupid, dumb, miserable desperate asshole, and finally, when we come to another dead stop, I am seized with sudden fear this behemoth Cyclops is going to jump out of his car and possibly maim or throttle the life out of me.
I have never witnessed another human this angry, ever!
I pull my head back in as traffic luckily starts right up in a crawl. The deranged madman continues barking at me, his finger out the window. As traffic mercifully picks up, he turns back around, watching the road, left hand still out the window, middle finger pointing at the sky. We get up to around 45 mph, a good flow. He’s still giving me the finger, his malevolent eyes on mine in his side mirror. I honk. He shakes the finger and raises it for emphasis and jabs it up in a manner indicating I can “shove it up my ass.” I honk again and he increases the vigor with which he is flipping me the bone.
I start laughing. Marley licks my face and crawls back to his shotgun position to gaze calmly out the window at the ocean and sniff the breeze. I have followed this lunatic in front of me for nearly 20 minutes, and he’s still giving me the finger. We halt at another light. He’s still got that finger out there, just holding it, not moving it around, showing me he’s not about to let me off the hook.
He’s still got his Cyclopean devil eye on me, too. So I jut my head out the window. He’s waiting, waiting…I give him the peace sign. He shakes his finger violently in response, wagging it back and forth, gritting his teeth. We slow down for another light. I cry out, “PEACE, MY BROTHER! WE’RE ALL IN THIS BULLSHIT TOGETHER! MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR!”
He goes apoplectic, unleashing a blood-curdling slew of profanity, calls me a faggot, cocksucker, you name it. He’s reinvigorated, face redder than before. Traffic flows. We’re nearly into Santa Monica. Where is this madman going? We’ve been carrying on, from what I can read on my speedometer, for almost 10 miles—a long drive in L.A.
I continue to flash him the peace sign, occasionally with an effeminate flourish, and keep my hand out the window full time. When he re-emphasizes the rage of his finger-giving, I answer with an even more intense peace sign. He sees me studying him in his side mirror, and mouths the words, “hippie faggot!” I mouth the words, “find love, my brother,” and wiggle my two peace-sign fingers.
“FUCK YOU!” he rages on, bouncing around in his seat, his finger still out there. Another mile or two, his finger is still out there. I pull into the second lane and try to edge up beside him, for a nice talk, possibly an understanding or a truce, but he swerves to cut me off, not about to let me go anywhere, and when the driver who was behind me tries to move up and pass him, he swerves back into the passing lane, cutting him off, too, and we jockey around this way for another mile, disrupting traffic, drawing honks and shouts, and he’s still giving me the finger and I’m still giving him the peace sign.
Finally, nearing the 10 freeway onramp, he gets into a left turn lane. I slow down to pass him. His massive bloated face turns toward me, but now he looks absolutely exhausted, haggard, the electric sparking insanity in his eyes gone blank, like fuses burnt out. I grin as I give him the peace sign, and, with an expression of disappointment and perhaps relief, with his right hand he flips me a rather lackluster finger as I go on my way, still giving him the peace sign out the window.
Later on, I’m so relaxed a momentary stall on the interchange of the 10 onto the 405 doesn’t bother me a bit. I’m almost giddy as I skim along next to the passing lane. Endorphins ripple through my body. I’m a noodle. Marley rests his muzzle on my lap and I stroke it gently as Coltrane plays on a tape. L.A. psychotics on cell phones are going ape shit behind me as I keep it at 60, while those veering off to swish past me issue filthy looks. I tool along near the airport, utterly at peace.
Anger is good.
