Grocery-Store-Parking-Lot Rage
Friday, November 21st, 2008On the way to a friend’s for dinner, I stopped by the Randall’s grocery store for some sangria makings. After entering the parking lot, I slowed down and considered my parking options. Just as I turned into a space I noticed that I had a Rav4 crawling up my ass.
“Dude, it’s a parking lot,” I growled to myself.
I gave a backhanded wave—my way of saying, “Back off. You’re too close. It’s a parking lot! And you’re driving a Rav4—a car completely devoid of masculinity and high performance ratings.”
I turned off the engine, looked in the rearview mirror and realized he was still behind me.
He was waiting.
Maybe he’s going to apologize, I thought. Maybe he’s going to admit he was driving like a big fat jackhole in a parking lot where the elderly, the teething and the clueless can’t defend themselves against his reckless ways.
“You gotta problem?” he asked with attitude.
He had rolled down the passenger side window. He looked like a little league coach; an everydad; a middle-aged, bearded man in Longhorn burnt orange and a baseball cap. A regular guy in what I hoped, for his sake, was his wife’s car.
“Yeah—why you gotta be on my ass?” I asked, glancing at him briefly before reaching into the backseat to grab my jacket.
“So you give me the finger?!” he replied, incredulously, raising his voice.
That was my moment to explain that I didn’t give him the finger. What I gave him was a backhanded wave, blah blah, chick car, blah blah, could take out grandma, blah, maim a child, ruin a life, etc., etc. But it didn’t matter. He was gearing up for his big finale.
“Why you gotta get on my ass?” I asked again, completing the set up.
“**ck you! You **#!amned *#itch!” he hollered before speeding across the remaining 30 feet of parking lot before having to stop so a woman and her son could cross his path on the way to her car.
I don’t know where this angry man went. I didn’t see him in the store although I admit to keeping my head down and darting stealthily from produce to the wine aisle, Mission Impossible style, sans the sleek black undercover agent wear. And back at my car all was quiet. He wasn’t waiting to pelt me with grapefruit or pin me to a tree with a rogue shopping cart. He hadn’t keyed my car or outlined “bitch” into the dust on my windows. He was just gone and with him his ugly words.
Later, while sipping on sangria, I wondered if he spent all his emotions on me at the Randall’s or if there was more left to heave on someone else. I felt bad for his next victim. But mostly I felt bad for him.