Fri 2 Mar 2007
On my bike commute home last night, with everything feeling good, I was jolted back to reality in the form of a writing instrument. Just as the light turned green and I began to proceed across the intersection of Florence and La Cienega I felt the tap of something hit my back pack and when I looked over my right shoulder I saw a ballpoint pen land on the asphalt and skitter away. Realizing that it had been intentionally thrown at me I looked back over at my left but the vehicle behind me was a gardener’s truck and I made eye contact with the driver but could tell he wasn’t the culprit. At that same moment a red mustang shot forward to the left of the gardener and the passenger side window was down.
Maybe derogatories were spat out at me but I didn’t hear those, only a sharp idiotic laughter that burst out at me loud enough to be heard over Jimmy Smits’ “Some Of My Best Friends Are The Blues” pumping into my ears through my iPod headphones.
Though the Mustang sped forward unimpeded and away from me down the open two-lane, I picked up my pace to 20-plus mph knowing that there were red lights up around the bend. Sure enough in the backed-up traffic before La Brea there it was hung up and helplessly trapped in the gridlock and so I threaded through the lines of cars splitting the lanes so as to pull up alongside.
Ditching off the bike which fell with a clatter behind me I first tried to yank open the passenger door, but it was locked. So Instead I leaned in with a fistful of hair and a fistful of neck framing the punk’s terrified face I hauled him out the window where he fell to the pavement with a clatter not unlike my bike where all he could whine was something like “No! Wait!” before I set to stomping and kicking him until the driver was forced to get out somewhat reluctantly and come after me with a steering wheel lock that I took away from him after he landed a rather tentative blow across my helmet. But before I could pay back the favor with interest he ran off to the relative safety of the sidewalk across the street shouting for someone to call 911 and while someone did I turned my attention back to the pronated punk who was groaning curled up in a fetal position saying something about how sorry he was.
“Yes, you are.” I told him.
Not really in the mood to kill anybody I decided to destroy the Mustang and set upon it with the steering lock, working around it in a counterclockwise movement, that left no surface undented, unscratched, or unshattered until I’d come around it full circle and gave one last kick to the punk’s head — cursing myself for not taking the time to pick up the pen he’d thrown because I would’ve love love loved to have given it back to him, if you know what I mean. Maybe bury it in an ass cheek or through his hand or something. Or scrawl “punk” with it really hard across his pimply forehead.
Scary what I’m capable of, isn’t it? Even if everything past the second paragraph was only imagined.