The Streets Are Full Of Four-Wheeled Francis Soyers

Coming home east along Venice Boulevard I spotted a black coupe a half block up poking out from a side street fully across the bike lane waiting for motor traffic to clear so the driver could make a right. I slowed hoping he’d get his chance but the flow of cars was too thick and I ended up having to merge in with it to get around him. Silly me: I dared give him a disapproving look in passing and in return he deemed it wholly appropriate to give me the finger.

I’m still doing pretty good at not getting goaded by such idiocy, but I couldn’t help stopping and turning  and shrugging an incredulous WTF at his display. He then responds by gunning into his turn, making sure as he comes out of it to angle a bit toward me as he zooms past — a shortsighted maneuver because the light at Cattaraugus was red and he then had to come to a quick stop behind the line of cars in front of him. When I arrived beside him and looked into the cabin at the trapped dickbag suddenly he wasn’t so bold. Sucker just stared straight ahead with something of a wide-eyed cross between defiance and embarrassment for the 10 seconds I examined him, which was just as well. If he’d given me even the slightest excuse I think I would have lost my senses of peace and humor. Insetad I just shook my head, crossed Cattaraugus and left him behind to consider what might have been had I been a bigger Francis than him.