On my bike commute home last night,Â with everything feeling good, I was jolted back to reality in the form of a writing instrument. Just as the light turnedÂ green and I began to proceedÂ across theÂ intersection of Florence and La Cienega IÂ felt the tap ofÂ 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 outÂ at me but I didn’t hear those, only a sharp idiotic laughter thatÂ burst out at me loud enough to be heard overÂ 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.Â Sure enoughÂ in the backed-up traffic before La Brea there it was hung up and helplessly trapped in the gridlockÂ and soÂ I threaded through theÂ lines of carsÂ splitting the lanes so as to pull up alongside.
DitchingÂ off the bike which fell with a clatterÂ behind meÂ I first tried to yank open the passenger door, but it was locked. So Instead I leaned inÂ with a fistful of hair and a fistful of neck framing the punk’s terrified face I hauledÂ him out the windowÂ where he fellÂ Â to the pavement with a clatter not unlike my bike where all he could whine was something like “No! Wait!” before I set to stompingÂ andÂ kicking himÂ 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 ratherÂ tentative blow across my helmet. But before I couldÂ pay back the favor with interestÂ 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 whoÂ was groaning curled up in a fetal position saying something about how sorry he was.
“Yes, you are.” IÂ told him.Â
NotÂ really in the mood toÂ kill anybody I decided to destroy the Mustang and set uponÂ itÂ 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 andÂ gave Â one lastÂ kick to the punk’s head — cursing myself for not taking the time to pick up the pen he’d thrown Â because I would’ve love love lovedÂ 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 scrawlÂ “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.