In the interest of “keeping it real” – something I strive for in both my actual and imaginary life – I must report yesterday's unsavory bus-stop incident.
Join me in my head - have a seat next to the guy that stood me up in 11th grade, over there in the corner of my mind - and go back with me, a little more than 24 hours ago...
It is a hot and humid morning, a morning typical of Minneapolis in August.
As is my custom, I have my iPod on, the volume low, the right earbud in, the left hanging from my purse. I have joked for years that no one is going to sneak up on me - I'm no clueless wienie, oblivious to the world…
I am walking and am well into the intersection of the four-way stop at which my bus stop is located when a red car rolls up to the intersection, rolls through the intersection, and clips the yoga bag hanging off my back, making me hop forward in an undignified and arrhythmic display.
It’s a nice car, a red four-door something-or-other, waxed to a high sheen, all four windows open to allow for a breeze and operated by an elderly man whose head appears, in a rather “Kilroy Was Here” manner, just above the steering wheel.
I am not angry. I am dismayed.
“Hey!” I exclaim. “That’s a four-way stop!”
Red Waxed Car turns the corner, jams his arm out the window... and flips me off.
I've been flipped off by the man who missed hitting me with a car by this much!
The one-fingered salute! The bird! The digital “up-yours”!
My jaw drops.
The finger! I think. The finger! At 7:14 a.m.! Two people can play that game, buddy.
And then I think: And then that'll be two fingers. Two! Two fingers! TWO fingers at 7:14 a.m.! Ah! Ah! Ah!
Suddenly, I have become Count Van Count.
Who can flip off an old man once the theme from Sesame Street has started?
Not this gal.
There has been no damage done to my yoga bag, to my rear end (which, surprisingly, does not stick out further than my bag, contrary to my earlier belief), and I live to ride the bus another day.
One! One grateful commuter! Ah! Ah! Ah!
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