don’t drive angry

Broadway in Cambridge is a mostly two-lane road, so when it’s busy, as on a Saturday afternoon, traffic doesn’t move very fast. It was a glorious early fall day, the kind when the bright sunlight and a slight breeze make the just-changing leaves twinkle, and people can’t help feeling some sense of contentment, world events be damned. LBC and I crawled along behind a small, slightly beat-up sedan, with a bumper sticker that read something to the effect of, “Mission NOT accomplished.” Suddenly, the driver’s hand emerged from the open driver’s side window, and we watched as he raised a pronounced, deliberate middle finger.

“Wow, what’s his problem?” we wondered, as there didn’t seem to be any offending cars to cut him off or bikers to swerve into his path.

“Could it be the Hummer–?” I said, as a shiny black model passed by in the opposite direction. The timing was about right; the man’s hand extended and withdrew as the giant SUV lumbered by.

We were astonished to think that some people could be so angry, and I worried that any encounter between the type of dude in a gas-guzzling behemoth and the raging little man in the sedan would not end well. Fortunately, the people in the Hummer probably couldn’t even see the lowly sedan from their perch high above the road.

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