Between my brother and me, Alex is the mellow laid back one and I’m more, how shall we say, fiery. I’m still holding a grudge from the mid-80’s. So, it baffles me that when confronted with road rage yesterday, my brother went ballistic.
Sniffly and exhausted, I asked Alex to drive from my place in the Mission back to Mill Valley. As we headed down Van Ness, we noticed a red Pontiac jerking forward and stopping, skipping along the road driven by someone who obviously didn’t know how to drive a stick shift. This continued for a couple of blocks, as the Pontiac weaved in and out of lanes, confusing everyone around and stalling at every green light along the way. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. “This dude needs to fucking go.”
I reached over and honked the horn, hoping that shitty driver would step it up and get his act together. The Pontiac came to a screeching halt in the middle of the intersection and a shorter, far less attractive 50 Cent angrily emerged, arms outstretched.
I mean it, folks. We’re now stuck in the middle of an intersection, behind a manual transmission Pontiac and a seriously angry Crip, screaming obscenities and challenging my baby brother to fisticuffs. Traffic is backing up, people are staring, horns are honking and I am freaking out.
“Lock the doors! Lock the doors!”
“Look at this jackass. He’s all pissed and insecure.”
“He’s freaking me out, Lex!”
“He’s just pissed that he can’t drive that car. He’s all frustrated, look at him. He’s all little and over-compensating. He’d shit his pants if I got out of the car.”
My brother’s 6’5” and rarely needs to actually fight. He merely stands and people retreat.
We stared back at 50 Cent, as Alex remained calm and simply said over and over, “Get back in your car, dude. Just get back in your car.”
50 Cent finally realized he was stopping lanes and lanes of traffic and got back in his car, moving into a far right lane and waiting for us to drive up along side him.
“Stay back, Lex. I don’t want to drive next to him.”
“Relax. He’s so riled up, though.”
As we neared his car, he suddenly swerved into our lane in a shitty and ungentlemanly attempt to scare us. It was a cocky, chicken-shit move and while it freaked me out, I did not share my brother’s reaction.
“FUCK YOU!” His middle finger flew past my face as he screamed across me at 50 Cent. “Jesus mother fucking Christ. Holy shit. Oh my god! What a fucking asshole! Fuck you, dude!”
Alex was livid, screaming and yelling. “That is fucking insane, it’s so unsafe. Oh my god, nice fucking Nascar move, dipshit.”
“Jeez, Lex. Calm down.”
“Do you know how dangerous that shit was? Precious cargo! Precious cargo!”
50 Cent in his domestic vehicle he doesn’t know how to drive turned down a side street, but Alex was still fuming as we pulled onto Lombard.
“I can’t believe how mad you’re getting about this. 50’s the one freaking out. Don’t let him rile you.”
“Oh my god, I’m so mad. That's small dick syndrome, Beth.”
“Definitely. We gave him a mini-honk and that’s how he responds? God, I’m pissed.”
“All because he can’t drive a stick.”
“Yeah, maybe it’s because it’s shoved too far up his ass…”