Road rage at a Speedway

I GUESS THE EVER-ESCALATING and unpredictable prices at the gas pumps is not only exasperating to most of us, but a phenomenon that spurs some of the worst in us.

I recently made that observation while pulling into a Speedway gas station on Indy’s south side. As I nosed into the area from a side entrance a couple of fellows nearly stepped into my path. I made the slick decision to proceed, judging that they were not in imminent danger of any kind. I mouthed a quick “sorry” to them, gave them both a gentle wave of contrition, and eased into a spot .

As I started to walk into the building to pre-pay my several pounds of flesh for petroleum, I heard some twangy voice behind me in a redneck loudly sputtering in angry Daffy Duck sort of way.

Stoopeed sumbitch wach’ya think ya doin? Ya cudda kilt us back there you dumbazz!  I gazed back and looked my accuser.  

His face was a contorted, purple twist similar to that of Rootin’ Tootin’ Raspberry, one of the many varieties of Funny Face powder drinks from 40 years ago. For those of you who need more current icon references, think of a Nick Nolte mug shot or Lindsay Lohan exiting a courtroom on her way to community service or rehab.

He was scrunched down in the seat of a small pickup truck whose white paint had long faded into a hue of creamed coffee. He had a bumper sticker near the tailgate cleverly reminding others that his property was protected by Smith & Wesson.

Then he jump-started his tirade.

How da hell dipsticks like ya are allowed to have licenses! Y’aint read da rules of drivin’ or da road? Dumb sumbitch!!!

That when I took a few steps toward his vehicle. Not in a menacing way, mind you, because at my age the only thing I can reasonably intimidate is a bowl of Campbell’s soup with a tag-team of oyster crackers. I just couldn’t hear all that he was barking.

That’s when he rolled his window up half way. I assume it was a defensive major, though I generally am not an offensive sort of guy.

Say brother, didn’t catch all that, but I said I was sorry, I said, jutting my thumb back toward where I had pulled in.

He screamed more expletives, adjectives and colorful expressions which surely would have made his mama proud. To be honest, I wasn’t getting angry in response; just perplexed by this strange encounter.

He goosed the accelerator to boost the RPMs on is pathetic truck and in his testosterone.

Keep off da road – you old freak!!!

And in deference to Ralphie’s classic line in A Christmas Story, I can relate this: He didn’t say freak. But it was a one syllable word most of us know.

He spun the back tires of his battered vehicle and blasted out of the Speedway station.

That’s when I felt a rush of blood flushing into my face and a slight clenching of the fists. But it passed immediately.

I shook my head and walked into to pre-pay. A lady standing outside the door who had witnessed this quick drama simply commented in a sympathetic voice, Guess that fella was having a bad day.

But I more deeply hoped that Rootin’ Tootin’ Raspberry blew a tire or two on the way to his destination.