Rage Road

Intersection, a major one.

Two left turn lanes, my car in the more widely-arched one, second car back.

To my left, other cars, one at the crosswalk, another just pulled up, a pick-up with a large plastic children's slide set tied down in the truck bed.

The pick-up driver gets out.  He walks up to the car in front, the one at the crosswalk.

Heavy traffic is flowing through the intersection.

These guys are traveling in a caravan, I casually think.

The pick-up driver, now right at the other car, starts shouting clearly Get off the fucking phone.

It's clear that they're not traveling in caravan, and that he's angry,

Get off the fucking phone.

He slams the flat of his hand against the window of the driver whose face is not visible from this lane.

The pick-up driver, a man in his 30s, closely-cropped hair, wearing work shirt, goes back to his truck.

The pick-up truck is idling next to my Toyota.

When both our lanes turn left on the green arrow, I make sure to leave space, since the pick-up may very well want to scoot alongside the driver accused -- I've concluded -- of driving while using a cellphone.

Yes.

The pick-up veers in front of me and ducks into a supermarket village.

The cellphone guy, more precipitously, lunges ahead of me, as well, and cuts into the next supermarket entry.

Testosterone hangs in the air like the smell of burnt fireworks in the early a.m. following Independence Day.

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