A Brief History of Road Rage

across the Perimeter:: yeah, that's until I figured out a lil something about Hotlanta - everyone and their mama was moving here. And all these transplants were bringing their high-a$$ rent with them. So even though I was making decent money, I couldn't afford to live near my gig, yet. So, not only did I have to jump on the 6-lane Connector, but had to learn my way around thePerimeter (the 60 mile Interstate 285 that forms a rough circular-square around Atlanta.).

Here's a sweeping generality about the Perimeter: the better-paying jobs are on the Northern Arc, and the lower-priced housing (rent and own) is on the Southern Arc. Now, of course there are exceptions, but generally - good jobs above Interstate 20 (cuts across Atlanta, thru theConnector and thePerimeter), better housing prices below I-20. Oh yeah, and more people of color below I-20 (well, inside thePerimeter, outside is a different story) - and I like living around people of color.

So I've always lived 30 miles away from work. Now it used to be ok - I'd grab a meal, some tunes, some squares (cigarettes) and take that time to chill, get my head together, prep mentally for work. Meditate. White-knuckle the steering wheel doing 52MPH, and pray that no one would hit me. And then I quit smoking....

the epiphany - plugging holes:: one day a mutual friend named Trax (aspiring producer) came to pick me up from work. I'd loaned my roommate my car. Anyway, Trax kicked his homeboys outta the front seat to let me in, and we peeled outta the parking lot. I knew what with Trax being from NY-proper, that he would drive like a bat-outta-hell, and he didn't disappoint. We drove from Norcross, GA to College Park, GA (30 miles) in about 40 minutes, at about 75MPH. In rush hour traffic. Weaving the entire time. And when I politely screamed at Trax "what the hell are you doing?!!!" he told me "calm down luv, I'm just plugging holes". You know those things that the law calls a 3-car-length-safe-driving-distance-allowing-you-time-to-brake? They're just holes, and he taught me how to fill 'em, to cut a 90 min drive down to 40. Thanks, Trax ;-)

lane-dancing:: see, I overanalyze everything, and with my smoking/eating in the car habit gone, I had way too much time to analyze e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g. Like: black women notoriously pay little attention to the road, and women on cellphones drive in a vacuum, and chances are the pickup trucks are driven by young white men who don't give a flying f*ck about the rules of the road. Oh, and that BMW drivers are absolutely the worst, period. I'd apologize directly to the BMW drivers in Atlanta, but c'mon - y'all know you paid too much money for that car, and you overcompensate by being complete idiots on the road. Again, I digress.

I learned that traffic (obviously) has patterns, and like a Rubic's cube, once you learn the pattern, the drive gets easier. Specially if you drive faster. And I began to drive faster. 70MPH. 75MPH. Hell, in Atlanta, 75MPH only guarantees you won't get run over. 80MPH. Went back to school, tried to make 4:45 classes 20 miles away, by leaving work at 4:00PM. 85MPH. 90MPH. If I put on some Wu-Tang or Nas, I can weave without worry, without heart-racing, doing 90MPH, dancing through traffic. Lane-dancing.

but I knew I had a problem, when:: objects began to leave my vehicle at high rates of speed. See, I didn't realize I was taking traffic personally, until the first time someone tailgated me when I was doing about 80MPH in the Bob lane. You know, the passing lane, that no one in Atlanta will ever let you pass in? Yeah, some bleepin' for-ah-ner was tailgating me, and here I am stuck behind someone else doing 80. I eyed the half-empty bottle of designer water next to me, and smiled at the driver in my rear-view. Ok, pahtner, you want to tailgate me? I opened my window, placed said bottle on the roof of my truck, and let. it. go. Blam - square in the middle of his windshield. My logic: officer, if he wouldn't have been tailgating, it never would have hit him. Sick, right? It's as if there's a button inside me that gets pushed, or a trigger that gets pulled. I'm chilling, trigger gets pulled, and it's...it's on.

But that's not the only incidence of sickness....there was the half-empty can of soda when a station wagon tailgated me. Then, when the guy caught up and cut me off, I passed him on the shoulder, and sped off doing about 95. Or, the cell-phone bearing sista in the Bob lane I passed on the shoulder as she was doing 52MPH. Or the BMW I played chicken with in front of GA Tech during the Friday's Follies. Increasingly risky driving behavior, that doesn't even elevate my blood pressure. I no longer white-knuckle the steering wheel in fear. It scares me that my driving doesn't scare me.

the worst:: I'm tooling along on a Sunday afternoon, Hammy in tow. Driving home on I-85 from Norcross, Ga. I'm listening to Les Nubiens (had to stop listening to hip-hop in the car, since it fueled my anger). Then a Neon swerves toward me. I may have been in his blind spot, and maybe he didn't see me. I don't know. Alls I know is that he pulled that trigger inside me. Next thing I know, we're both doing 90MPH on Spaghetti Junction. Oh, Spaghetti Junction is that pic at your left - the exchange between I-85 (northside) and I-285 (east & west). There's an overpass from I-85 to I-285, that arches over another overpass, at least a 50 foot drop. Me and neon-man drove it like it was a roller coaster.

I vaguely remember increasing my speed steadily, wanting to catch up to neon-man to give him a piece of my mind. I vaguely considered that my behavior was out of control. However, it wasn't until I glanced at the speedometer, and realized I was doing about 115MPH that it occurred to me that Hammy was in the backseat of my truck. I looked up again, and realized I was at S. Atlanta Rd. I'd driven about 15-20 miles, at speeds varying from 90-115MPH, without batting an eyelash, while weaving through traffic. Houston, we have a problem.

road kill: here's the recurring fantasy - saga is tooling down the road at about 70MPH, 5 MPH over the speed limit. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a man driving a platinum BMW while talking on his cellphone jumps in front of her, doing 55MPH. Slightly perturbed, she signals and changes lanes to avoid hitting him. The BMW driver takes her evasive action as aggressive, jumping in front of her again, intentionally cutting her off. Instead of swerving to avoid him, she turns toward the car, clipping his rear bumper and spinning him into the median wall. He slams on his brakes, and they both skid into a halt. The driver rolls down the window: "hey, you crazy bitch - what the hell is wrong with you? Never batting an eyelash, she pulls off her size 10 Via Spigas, and steps barefoot out of her truck. "I'm calling the police" says the BMW driver, ending one call, and dialing 911. It never occurs to him to roll the window back up. His mistake. saga approaches the vehicle patiently, and before the BMW driver can hit the last 1, she strikes him above his left eye with the heel of her right stilletto, knocking the cellphone out of his hand, and the vehicle. "Hey!" is the last cry he utters, as saga strikes him repeatedly with the right shoe, tossing it unto the roadway when the heel breaks, and continuing with the left shoe. She stops when her arm gets tired. Covered in blood, saga then walks determinedly back to her vehicle, sticks the key in the ignition, and drives off.

What can I say? I read way too much Stephen King as an adolescent.

a cry for help:: I'd like to say that I'd like to stop, but I'd be SO lying. I'm a speed junkie. Driving normally makes me anxious. When someone acts an a$$ in traffic, it pisses me off enough that I want to cause them bodily harm. This morning, the shoulder-monitor (Lexus driver who straddles lanes and shoulder, preventing anyone from passing him on said shoulder - a$$hole) and I played chicken (again) and exchanged birds. It caused me a great deal of amusement.

*nostrils flare* Yes, and I'm a Taurus to boot. Takes a lot to piss us off, but once you go there...

I should probably seek help. If only I felt remorseful about my driving... aside: this pic is the Atlanta I fell in love with in 1991, forcing me to move here.

Legal Disclaimer:: everything you read here may/may not be true. Particularly if you work in law enforcement. I've exercised my artistic license. And I no longer drive a Jeep.