2005-07-03 - 4:14 p.m. Fake: I drive into their car, or let them drive into mine, to prove a point. There is a stop sign there, for a reason. You don't get to go just because you feel like it. You're not special, you don't get to invent parking spaces. That is what I think, as they hit me from the side or meet my rear end. It is an old car, an 87 Grand Marquis. There is no radio nor a roof liner. I bought it, very cheap, just for this purpose. The drivers get out, sometimes angry, sometimes apologetic. Always in the wrong. How I react to them varies. It depends on how I feel, how bad a day I've already had. Sometimes I yell. Sometimes I step out, crying. Sobbing. Sometimes I am scared. Sometimes, when the grill of an SUV is in my window I wonder why I am doing this. Then I remember. They ran a red light. They stopped in the middle of the road to cross over three lanes of traffic. They used the shoulder as their own personal lane. The glass breaks, flies through the car, lands in my coke. It is expensive to teach people lessons. previous - next