I never told you about the time I was coming back from Abilene and a truck driver road my ass, did I? It was late at night, I was heading to Dallas and it was dark. Mainly because it was late at night. But it was also raining. And I was driving a shitty little four-cylinder Chevy Cavalier. And I had a truck driver riding my ass. So I will tell you all about it now.
He was riding my ass, kind of like someone would ‘ride your ass’ if you were giving them a piggy-back ride. Basically, this big ass semi was drafting off me. I don’t remember what had set him off, if anything, but something made him decide he was too cool for school, and he owned the road. And for some reason, he got on my ass. I think he was just screwing with the small car on the highway, because there was no other traffic that late at night. Maybe he was looking for something to do to keep him awake between jerking off in his sleeper at truck stops.
Anyway, like I said, I don’t remember why he thought it was necessary, because I didn’t flip him off or anything. Not until after he started tailgating me. But he got so close I thought he was surely going to hit me. And I know if he had, he would have run me off the highway and kept going, without ever looking back. I regret that I haven’t control of the proper diction to illustrate verbally the amount of hatred I have for these type of people. People who put others’ lives at risk for no real reason, or for no good reason at least… I don’t say this very often, but I hope he burns in hell. I hadn’t done anything wrong.
And I was gunning it. Giving that little car every single ounce of power I could give it, trying to just get away from him so I could switch lanes and get him off my ass. And he was getting closer and closer. To be honest with you, I was sc- actually, you don’t care about the truth here at SpaceBrew! I wasn’t scared at all. Pssh. Whatevs, you know? I was giggling as he inched ever closer and my RPMs went way up over like 5000 or something. And it was raining and dark and I was on a turn and there were cones so I couldn’t get over and he was getting closer, and his headlights illuminated my entire vehicle and I knew he was going to kill me and keep going so I ended it. I did the only thing a real man can do in this situation.
When you’re not equipped with the proper automobile to just outrun him, and you don’t have a turret mounted on the roof of the car with someone manning the cannons, you have to take care of matters with anything you have. For if I would have even let off my gas for one second, he would have hit me. I rolled down my window and offered him my forty-ounce Mickey’s Fine Malt Liquor.
You see, I was planning on getting to Dallas around two or so, and was going to kick back with some friends and drink a little Mickey’s, as was our normal routine. And thus I had four full, unopened bottles in my backseat. I thought this nice guy behind me probably wouldn’t mind having one, so I shared. I flung with everything my left wrist could give it, and sent the full bottle back toward the semi. Keep in mind, this is only like seven feet, and we’re traveling around 75 MPH. Literally, that little car – against the wind – just doesn’t do much more than that. Maybe new it did. But mine wasn’t new.
I heard an intense explosion behind me, and though I couldn’t see it because of the flood of light in my car and mirrors, I knew it had hit home because it was immediately – instantaneously – accompanied by the sound of the loudest wailing of truck tires I could ever imagine. The semi swerved hard off to the right and plowed into the orange barrels sending plastic and stagnant water into an explosive mist, and he immediately fell away from my tail. After several seconds, the truck whipped hard again to the right and suddenly bolted hard at a weird angle, which told me he had hit the end of the concrete barrier, stopping him instantly.
The lights faded off in my rearview mirror and I let the car slow back down to the speed limit, which was I think 55, and the sound of the rain mixed with the noise of the road and tires through my open window finally began to rise again in my ears. I even noticed the stereo was still on sonically assaulting me with some Dream Theater. I was trembling visibly, and my knuckles were white on the wheel. But more than anything – more than the adrenaline that made my heart and mind race – I was angry. I wanted to have the ability to pull over and confront the asshole who had oppressed me with his superior vehicle. It’s not fair to treat people like that on the highway. I’m just glad it was me, and I was alone – not some woman, or my girlfriend. But still I was angry.
I often have dreams about the incident, and wish I could go back in time and steel myself – somehow allow him to hit me, to see if he would pull over. I know he wouldn’t have though. But I have these dreams of facing the faceless truck driver, where I finally get to confront him and give him all these years of angst and bitterness. Every bit of my rage and hate and anger that has collected for all these years, poured down into my thoughts of how he treated me that night, and funneled directly into my fists, steel and pounding his skull with every ounce of strength in my being. I absolutely hate that man. I’m just glad I don’t know who he is.
These days, I don’t drive late at night that often. I know that’s when most of the drunks are out on the road, and there’s really no reason for me to be out that late unless we’re coming home from a club or something. But I drive very modestly and conservatively – never oppressing other traffic, and never whipping in and out. I’ve grown out of all that. I found that when I stopped raging behind the wheel, I was cooler and calmer when I arrived. Not pent-up and full of fight. And it’s added years to my life.
So to the man who almost killed me that night – for I know you have done that to other people, surely – I hope you die a fiery death and burn in hell for the way you treat people. There is no atonement for your crime. And I’ll never forget you.